Nica's Story 3 - The Call Of Damballa
by smngry
Summary: Picking up hot on the heels of the second instalment, this final chapter of the Nica Trilogy picks up hot on the heels of Nica's Story 2. Familiar faces and past events are revisited as our heroine sets out to put an end to the legacy of Chucky once and for all...
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

As the car raced smoothly along the horizon, a vulture circled overhead, sensing the impending possibility of its next meal. The sunlight bouncing from the gleaming black bodywork of the Lexus as it turned off the main road, down the sandy dirt track and into the unknown. She didn't know what was happening, but she wasn't scared. The things she'd seen and experienced had made things like this seem pretty normal. Who were these guys? What did they want? Was it money? She could give them money. But nothing had been said, she'd just been thrown in the trunk, isolated as the car slipped into gear and started on this monumental trek. She felt safe in the knowledge that whoever was driving had no idea who they were really fucking with, otherwise why would they have done this? Yes, she had a feeling they were going to feel pretty sorry when they found out exactly what she was capable of. How she had found a way to survive, time and time again these last few years. Death held no secrets for her, nor fears either. The car had gotten bumpy this last few minutes, so she figured that they were now headed off road, the black emptiness of the trunk her only companion as the rear suspension of the extremely large car jostled with the road and bounced up and down making her bang her head on the interior of the rather spacious trunk. She'd felt around for something, anything she could use to beat them off with once they let her out, but she found nothing. It was completely empty. Suddenly she was thrown up against the rear seats as the car skidded to a halt abruptly.

"Jesus!" She whispered to herself, rubbing her head.

The next thing she heard was the sound of car doors both opening and closing as her captors left their seats and took a casual stroll to the rear of the car. She could hear voices, slightly muffled, but she could hear enough to make out the words clearly enough.

"Is this it?" One of them asked.

"Looks like it. Everything's in place." The other replied. "Get her out. We must finish this!"

As he finished talking she heard footsteps approaching the car, quickly followed by the sound of the key being inserted into the lock. A click, followed by the blinding rays of sunlight as the trunk of the car was slowly opened. She put her hands up, shielding her eyes as they adapted to the sudden influx of light, then heard a voice. It sounded professional, business like, and stern.

"Get out. It is time!"


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Light...

So much light...

Flickering like the wings of a startled butterfly, her eyes began to open, the light blinding, burning them into submission as she rolled over, her head spinning. The pain tore across her chest, searing, making her scream as she tried to move. She didn't know where she was, or even who she was, but she recognised the constant beeps of the hospital equipment. The humming of the breathing apparatus, familiar as the pipe was instantly yanked from her throat, her hands working on their own as they ripped the tape from her face and slowly pulled the tube free of her windpipe. She retched as she pulled the last bit clear of her face, her chest exploding once again in agony. Blinking her eyes again in frustration, she finally started to get used to the light, flowing in from her left hand side. As she released her grip on the now redundant plastic breathing tube, it casually fell to the floor, the accompanying alarm rousing various voices as the siren burst into life. Footsteps raced towards her as the doors opened with an explosion. She looked around as the shapes approached her, motioning, talking, but nothing made any sense. She felt a hand on her forehead as she was held down, the tube cleaned off and once again inserted down her throat. On the other side, somebody fiddled with an IV drip as everything once again started to become hazy. Her eyes started to close and the intense pain from her chest started to subside.

This could be heaven...

Or even hell...

This happened a few times, but she had no idea how long a period of time it was over. It could have been days, weeks, but on the other hand it could simply have been hours. Each time she found herself to be more alert, self aware, less panicked. She also noticed that the pain, the constant agony across her chest had now started to die down, more of a throbbing pain now. She still had no idea what had happened, how she'd ended up in what was obviously a hospital. But more importantly she had no idea 'who' had been involved in her latest predicament. She struggled to remember such simple things as her name during the fractured spells of consciousness that she had been experiencing. The panic ravaging her mind as she attempted to sit up, her head still dizzy from whatever drugs they were pumping into her veins. She would still wake, unable to recall various memories, but she had started to feel more human now. Every time she woke, she would lay there, unmoving, trying to kickstart her brain, letting the cool breeze wash over her shattered body. At first she had been shocked, genuinely scared that she had no feeling in her legs. Her upper body was fine, she had the pains to prove it, but her legs... Nothing... Dead! Now she remembered, they had always been like that. She ran her hand across her chest, the breathing tube now removed once and for all, but her medication remained. She was still tripping in and out as she felt something under her nightgown. Slightly above and just off centre of her breasts there was something there. A long, raised line, sensitive to touch, definitely the place she had been experiencing pain. Still dazed she laid back, her energy depleted after such a simple task, then taking a deep breath she let the drugs take her off to sleep once more.

She liked sleep...

She welcomed it...

Eventually they had seen fit to take her IV fluids away and sit her up. 'A modern day miracle' one of the medical team had called her as she slowly came to, her head still groggy from the morphine. The hospital room was surprisingly calming on her as she looked across to the window and out into the streets of San Diego. She could hear cars, bikes, and people laughing as they took a walk around the grounds, maybe just down the street. Trying to piece together the events that had brought her here, she closed her eyes and relaxed. Apparently, the shock her body had experienced had made her brain lock down, temporarily of course, but nevertheless it had gone into what the doctors had termed as 'Safe Mode'. Ceasing all functions except that one common to all members of the human race. The ability to survive. The last thing she truly remembered was making her dinner. Taking it from the microwave, then... Nothing. Just this. She placed her hand on her chest and felt the same raised line under the thin fabric of the night gown. Looking down she grabbed the collar and started, slowly, to pull it down and finally get a good look at whatever lurked underneath. Suddenly the door to her room was thrown open, her neighbour Joel entering. As she sat up, the expression of relief rapidly spread across his face.

"Nica! Jesus Christ you're alright." He said as he opened his arms and approached the bed, his leather jacket opening to reveal an alarmingly graphic ribcage t-shirt. About 5'8", shoulder length black hair and on the chunky side, Joel had been the first person to introduce himself on the day Nica had moved in to her new place in the assisted living complex in San Diego. Cheerful, with the thickest goatee Nica had ever seen, he had wasted no time at all in helping her move all manner of stuff around until she got the place just right. Truth be told she had found him a god send in the first week as he gave her a tour of the town, sorted out her various transport permits and even talked to the landlord about fixing the leaking shower head.

"Joel!" She opened her arms as wide as she could but recoiled slightly as soon as her chest started to ache.

"You alright?" He asked as he gently leaned in and gave her a hug, placing his hand on the back of her head and embracing her.

"Yeah..." Her voice was muffled as she tried to speak through the shoulder of Joel's jacket. Joel noticed this and pulled back, turning to grab a chair, taking a seat by the side of Nica's bed. She wiped away a tear as he sat down.

"Doctors said you'd probably be sore." He said. "But they also said you were the luckiest bitch they'd seen in a long time." His eyes widened as he repeated the last bit. "A looooong time!"

"Yeah? I don't feel too lucky." Nica answered as she tried to shuffle about and get comfortable again.

"You're kidding me right?" Joel asked. "You any idea how close you came to dying?" He had to laugh. Nica shot him a cold look.

"You know what happened?" She asked urgently. Joel stopped laughing and looked at her bewildered.

"Yeah, that guy was going to town on you." He spoke softly. "I came round, found the door open so let myself in. Next thing I know you're on your back in the living room, this guy straddling you, and the knife..." Nica held her hand up, her eyes snapping shut, images flashing across her brain, her memory jolted into life.

It all came flooding back.

David!

She remembered his face, he seemed to hang in the doorway, catching Nica's attention, then as she turned... He just threw himself across the room. She could see him now, hammering her head into the wooden floor, rolling her onto her back before sitting atop her and brandishing the knife. Nica hadn't known what was happening, she was in a daze, taken completely by surprise. Then he said something as he leaned in, slowly bringing the knife down and scraping it roughly across her cheek. What was it he said? She was struggling to remember. Then it hit home.

"Just like you're fucking slut mother!" He had spat at her as he ran the knife down her neck and across her chest, before lifting and plunging it into her heart, unknowingly missing the target by millimetres, both hands gripping the moulded plastic handle. It was as this happened that she took one last look into his cold empty eyes and realised that this wasn't David Jacobs. She wasn't sure how he had done it, but the man in front of her, shoving the knife deeper, now choking her with his spare hand, was none other than Charles Lee Ray. He was the only person to refer to her mother, Sarah Pirce, in such a demonic way, and now as she looked into his eyes she felt the most horrific pain she could imagine as her last breath was slowly strangled from her body. His twisted, evil face bustling with sadistic pleasure, as a grin spread from ear to ear. Then as she closed her eyes, she let go of everything and prepared for the warm embrace of death to finally take her. After everything it was finally ending, the last six months, ironically enough counting for nothing.

"...and that's the last I remember." She whimpered as she finished relaying her newly found memories to Joel. He sat staring in disbelief.

"You mean you knew this guy?" He stuttered. "This guy was your friend David?"

Nica nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks as she lifted her hands to her eyes.

"But they got him!" Joel grabbed Nica's wrist as he spoke. "I pulled him off you and screamed for help."

"You did?" Nica asked, looking up, surprised.

"Yeah. Luckily enough there were some guys doing repairs next door. They came running in and helped me hold the guy down while we called the cops and an ambulance. Didn't say his name was David though!"

"What did he say his name was?" Nica knew the answer before the question left her lips, but she needed to hear it.

"Charles... He was screaming it in fact. Even when the cops showed up! Took three of 'em to get him to the car!"

"Oh god!" Nica sat back, her life crumbling, once again, before her eyes. "Where is he now?"

"According to the paper..." Joel started. "He was committed! He wasn't all there Nica. He had something seriously wrong with him!"

Nica shook her head as she tried to take it all in. Her head started to pound as she realised what had happened. That night, the ambulance, the lightning... Poor David. What had happened to him? What had the bastard done to him? Suddenly and without warning Nica vomited, yellow bile shot across the bed as Joel instinctively flinched backwards.

"It's okay," He said as he pressed the emergency button. "They're coming Nica."

With each convulsion, her chest seemed to ignite, the pain growing deeper, more intense with every second. As she placed her hand on her chest, she once again felt the long, raised bump under the night gown. Placing her hands on the collar, furiously yanking it down, Nica screamed as she exposed a four inch scar, the result of a team of medics working round the clock to keep Nica alive following her violent altercation, after the knife had pierced her skin, only narrowly missing several major arteries. Nica's scream died into a weep as she saw the ugly line of stitches, yet another constant reminder of Charles Lee Ray.

As the nurses entered the room, one grabbed a syringe from one of the various medical trays around the room, using it to pierce a vial of morphine before drawing back the plunger and injecting Nica in her hip.

Then before she knew it, Nica was out again.

Her problems drifting away in a cloudy haze.

"Okay David," Detective Lawrence Adams stubbed his cigarette out before exhaling, the acrid smoke filling interrogation room 3 of San Diego Police Department. His piercing blue eyes and ruffled silver hair lending him an air of Hollywood, not a street hardened police officer, he leaned back in the steel chair and folded his arms across his chest, narrowing his eyes as he directed his gaze at the gibbering wreck of a man before him, hands cuffed behind his back, fidgeting in his seat as he sat with his head bowed. "What exactly happened? In your own words."

"How about you loosen the cuffs officer?" Charles asked, speaking through the manipulated body of David Jacobs, the flesh twisting and crawling as his soul entwined itself within the host.

"I can't do that David." Adams replied. "You've been arrested for attempted murder. Do you understand what that means?"

Silence. Just a smirk crossing David's face as his eyes lifted, brow furrowing as his head remained bowed. The sheer look of lunacy dwelling deep within the eyes was disturbing to Detective Adams.

"You know, the last time I was interrogated officially, I was allowed a phone call?" David casually asked. "At least allowed to talk to someone."

"Talk to me," Adams tried again. "Tell me what happened. Believe it or not I'm on your side."

"Really?" David asked, a hint of sarcasm to his response.

"Sure." Adams replied. "We just want to know what happened."

Silence again as David dropped his eyes and took a deep breath, exhaling as he spoke.

"And what if you don't believe me?" He asked.

"Well we won't know that until you tell us, will we?" Adams leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands together as he used them to support his unshaven chin. This man was proving to be a problem alright. A thorn in Detective Adams' side.

"But I've told you everything. It's all been a mistake, you've got the wrong man." David's words lingered, spinning out endlessly as he spoke.

"David, we've got three witnesses, not to mention the officers that arrived on scene and literally had to carry you screaming to the car. Now you're telling me we got the wrong guy? Come on." He leaned back again, closing his eyes as he massaged his temples.

Silence once again filled the thick atmosphere of the interrogation room.

"Okay..." David quietly whispered. "You want the truth? Here's the truth."

Detective Adams leaned forward again, ears pricked up, trying to catch the words as they quietly left the lips of the man sitting across from him. David continued...

"My real name is Charles Lee Ray. I was born September 6th 1950..." David was interrupted.

"You look awfully good for a sixty-four year old David." He paused, deciding to play along slightly. "Sorry I mean Charles."

"I haven't finished." Charles replied, his head not lifting to acknowledge either Detective Adams or the street cop guarding the door. "You have to let me finish. Try not to interrupt!" His voice became louder, angrier.

"Okay then... Charles. Continue..." Adams reached into the jacket hanging from the back of his chair and lifted the pack of Marlboro cigarettes from the breast pocket. He could tell that something was far from right with this man. He'd started sweating, shaking, almost as though he was coming down with something. Flu maybe? Whatever it was, it lent an even more intimidating dimension to his already dishevelled and mildly psychotic appearance.

"If you interrupt me again then I'll not be happy. Do you understand?" He asked, his voice becoming louder still, sterner even.

"I understand Charles." He replied. "Please, go on."

"I was born September 6th 1950, only to be gunned down, killed, by one of you cowardly fucks thirty-eight years later." David's voice had more than a hint of venom and aggression as he rattled the sentence off.

"Thirty-eight years? That'd make it what? 1988? I'm confused here Charles, because you don't look a day over thirty to me." Adams was used to hearing crazy stories, and this was shaping up to be a classic.

"WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT INTERRUPING?" David screamed, lifting his head, his face dripping with sweat, twisted with rage. The cop on the door stepped forward as Detective Adams held his hands up, silently telling him to back off. He knew there was no danger. This guy was handcuffed to his seat, he'd have to be crazier than he looked to even try something.

"It's okay. It's okay, calm down. Please, carry on..." He politely tried to defuse the situation. "What happened after you were gunned down? Was this here? In San Diego?"

"No," He calmed his voice. "It was in Chicago. November 9th 1988, the corner of Wabash and Van Buren, some toy store!"

"Okay. So, forgive me for asking this, but..." He paused, trying desperately not to antagonise him even further. "If you died in 1988, then how do you explain your being here? In front of me... Right now."

David threw his head back, laughing as the light shone from above, illuminating his face, the beads of sweat gathering on his forehead.

"I passed my damn soul into some doll!" He laughed manically. "Do you believe that? Before that night I wouldn't have believed it either, but here I am. I've been trapped in there ever since. You never heard of me? Charles Lee Ray! The Lakeshore Strangler!? And now I'm back and you fuckers can get ready, because when I get out of here," He lowered his face to stare Detective Adams out, disgust emanated from every word. "I'm coming for every motherfucking last one of you! Then I'm coming for your families, and I'm gonna have me a fucking good time with them. Do you fucking get me now? You son of a bitch!"

With that Detective Adams stood, the chair screeching as it slid across the concrete floor of the interrogation room. Grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair, he flung it around his shoulders and slipped his arms into the sleeves. Finally able to light his cigarette, he cupped his hands over his mouth and addressed the street cop by the door.

"Come on," He quietly said. "We're wasting our time with this basket case."

As he opened the door, they both stepped through, into the corridor of the police department. The laughter of Charles Lee Ray growing louder and more disturbing with every breath, echoing through the halls, catching the attention of everyone and anyone within earshot.

The sound of a crazy bastard.

As they walked, Detective Adams turned to the young street cop, removing the cigarette from his mouth and releasing the nicotine stained toxins from his lungs.

""Joe isn't it?" He asked as he clenched the cigarette between his teeth once more.

"Yes sir." The young officer replied.

"Well then Joe. Tell me that wasn't the craziest thing you ever saw." He asked, as they approached the booking in desk.

"I think it's safe to say it definitely was sir!" Joe replied. Just approaching his first year since making the force, Joe had seen some pretty strange things in the last twelve months, but this was shaping up to be one of the more bizarre ones alright. "You think he's tripping on something?"

"No." Adams shook his head as he reached over the booking desk and grabbed the phone. "He's had his bloods and urine done. He's clean." He picked up the handset and started dialling one of the numbers from an information chart on the desk.

"Well what do you think it could be?" Joe asked again.

"Jesus Joe." Adams spun round, removing the cigarette once more, phone held to his ear. "Whatever happened to just plain old crazy huh?" He laughed slightly as he finished.

Joe smirked and nodded. He was right. Suddenly Adams spoke into the phone.

"Yeah, get me doctor Wilde." He growled, turning to Joe and covering the mouth piece with his hand. "How's that? Guy's called Wilde. Where does he end up working? Fucking mental hospital!"

They both laughed as Adams waited on the phone. It didn't take long before he was connected to the mysterious Dr Wilde.

"Yeah doc, it's Detective Adams... Down at SDPD? Yeah, SDPD! Yeah, that's me. Listen..." He waved his arms as he spoke, becoming slightly more exaggerated each time. "...We got a guy down here you're gonna want to come check out."

Quiet as Adams listened, his eyes narrowing again as he concentrated.

"Yeah, you could say that... What? Attempted murder. What's weird about him? Oh nothing much. Claims to be some guy called Charles Lee Ray? What you mean that's so nineties? You gonna come down here or not, because if I have to go over your head with this... Ah, good. I'll have him ready for ya then!"

He replaced the handset and turned to Joe.

"Fuckin' smart ass!" He sneered. "Come on Joe, I'll let you give Mr Jacobs the good news."

"What news sir?" Joe seemed suddenly nervous as Adams grabbed his neck, marching down the corridor with him.

"He's just secured himself a booking at San Diegos premiere nut house! Longcroft Asylum!"

Now, as he woke, he had no idea what day it was. He didn't even know how long he'd been there. As the light gently seeped in through the window high up in the room, only a narrow one, but a window none the less, he curled up on his bed and shivered. He tried to breathe, but his breath was shallow and stuttering, unable to take a solid breath as his lungs flared in pain, the thudding of his slow, weak heart reverberating around his entire body and pounding in his ears. The bare brick of the cold, damp room had started to become monotonous too, like a recurring nightmare every time he opened his eyes. The heavy steel door, the only way in and out, didn't offer any kind of comfort as the guards occasionally slid the chest high latch open to check on the condition of the various patients. He thought back to Green Acre, the room Nica Pirce had been placed in. That was like a hotel compared to this place. Here he had his bed, his very basic, dirty, toilet and... That was it. But he couldn't give a shit right now. He couldn't even be bothered to kick a fuss up with the guards. He had no energy, all he wanted to do was sleep, but it was becoming impossible. Every night the same dream. Flames bursting into life around him, a long skeletal, decaying hand, reaching out and grabbing him by the wrist, carrying him off into the pitch black abyss. 'It must mean something.' He'd think. Something was wrong with him, but he didn't know what, and that was the thing driving him insane. He seriously felt like shit. As he curled up on the cheap, spring filled mattress, he pulled the covers over his body as the trembling continued, getting worse every day. His hands felt numb, his back seemed to be seizing up and his skin had turned pale, while all along it glistened with constant beads of sweat as he appeared, to the common eye, to be burning up. But nothing could be further from the truth, he was cold, ice cold. It was as though... 'No that couldn't be it', he told himself.

But it felt like...

It felt like death.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The cool breeze drifted in through the open window of Nica's hospital room, filling her lungs with clean, pure air as she sat up and stretched her arms, yawning before running her fingers through her long, wavy, brunette hair. She blinked a few times, rubbing her eyes, taking in the familiar surroundings once more. She was feeling much better this last week and fingers crossed, today was hopefully the last morning she would be waking up here. She didn't mind it at the hospital, the staff were great and had taken every opportunity to make sure she was comfortable, which was something she'd recently found to be lacking in the last place. Sure Green Acre had its fair share of good staff, but she had always felt an element of disgust in peoples' minds whenever she was around them. Secretly talking about her, as soon as she was out of sight. Passing judgment without bothering to get to know her. Life was filled with people like that unfortunately, but Nica had learned over the course of her 26 years to deal with it and keep her head held high. She looked at the clock on the wall and noticed that she'd had a good twelve hours solid sleep, probably the longest in months. As she was sat looking at the clock, the door to her private room opened quietly as one of the nurses poked her head around the door, a friendly smile crossing her lips as she noticed Nica awake sat up.

"Morning you lazy girl." The nurse joked as she opened the door fully walking in backwards, the breakfast trolley squeaking as she pulled it through the doorway. Her petite figure and cropped black hair making her instantly recognisable.

"Morning Jess." Nica replied, having another stretch, her hair a mess, curls everywhere. The smell of freshly buttered toast and hot coffee making Nica's tongue dance with the prospect of something nice to eat. She liked Jess, not just because she brought her breakfast every morning. Nica guessed it was mainly because they were of a similar age and from the same part of Chicago, Jess moving to San Diego on a college scholarship the first chance she got. Something Nica had once dreamed of doing, only to be held back again by a domineering mother. Constantly telling Nica how she was afraid she wouldn't cope on her own. Looking back, Nica wondered whether her mother had actually been talking about herself. She found it ironic that she'd never thought Nica would survive college, travelling to Europe, a whole load of things most people got to try at some point in their life. But here she was, a survivor. Twice now she'd survived something that her mother could never have predicted, something worse than anybody could ever have imagined. Not just at the hands of Charles Lee Ray either, but Eric Grant, head night nurse of Green Acre Mental Facility. His body had apparently been found in a cubicle of the first floor toilets, strangled, stabbed, the life squeezed out of him. The official verdict was that the escaped patients from Maximum Security had come across him on their crazed spree as they desperately searched for freedom, him suffering the same fate as Grace, Lynn, Paul and James. But Nica had other ideas, something hadn't seemed right and she doubted very much that Eric Grant would still have been hanging round Green Acre after being sent home in disgrace hours earlier by Dr Abner. The complaint filed by Nica leading to his immediate suspension pending a full investigation. She was jerked from her daydream as Jess placed a mug of piping hot coffee on the breakfast tray at the side of Nica's hospital bed, swivelling it around so it hovered over Nica's legs.

"What you fancy for breakfast?" She asked, wiping her hands on a towel. "It's a little late in the day, most of the good stuff's gone. But there's plenty of fresh toast. Just made it two minutes ago."

"That toast would be perfect, thanks." Nica smiled as she leaned forward and lifted the mug, wrapping both hands around and holding it under her nose as she took a deep breath. Suddenly she felt a twinge in her chest. Her heart still beating, but badly damaged after the attack from David. She was still trying to get her head around the events that unfolded after he'd arrived in San Diego. He'd seemed fine when he arrived, a little troubled, but that was to be expected after everything that had happened. It had been a week since Joel had visited, filling in the blanks and helping her piece together the memories that had evaded her on waking. The doctors had worked endlessly on her wounds and nearly wrote her off once or twice, but she rose from the ashes fighting, clinging to life. Severed veins, arteries, the knife ever so slightly glancing a part of her heart that she couldn't even remember the name of. The pain had become more bearable up until recently, but Nica found the more she did, the more she became tired, the harder her heart had to work, pumping more and more blood and struggling under the strain. As she sat there now, watching Jess plate up a couple slices of toast she couldn't help but think of the look on David's face. Empty, void of any expression at all. No love, no hate, nothing. But his eyes flickered with rage and his mouth opened, spewing words of hatred regarding her mother, and that's when she knew. She didn't know how, but she knew. Somehow Chucky had become part of David, his body manipulated into doing the evil bastard's bidding. Was David still in there somewhere? Was he dead? How did it happen? The only thing Nica could remember was the ambulance as it lay at the bottom of the embankment near the farm, the rain lashing down as the wheels spun, pointlessly spraying mud up the side of the vehicle. She tried to reach it, find David, but before she could do anything the storm picked up suddenly, clouds rumbling overhead, the lightning striking the ambulance and igniting it. David at first presumed lost in the inferno as the police arrived seconds later. According to the medics as she was taken to hospital, the doll had been more or less incinerated, turned to dust by the explosion. She didn't know how this had all happened, but she intended on finding out. After a two week coma, enforced on her by the medical team as she battled to pull through following David's crazed attack, then this following week of round the clock monitoring, she had improved significantly and was hoping todays meeting with Dr Hastelow would be good news. Three weeks since that day. Where had the time gone? Nica felt more angry that she'd been robbed of time she'd never get back.

"You want anything else hun?" Jess asked as she placed the plate of toast in front of Nica.

"No, thanks. I'll have enough here." Nica replied with a gentle smile.

"How you feeling?" Jess enquired holding her hand to her chest. "Still getting the pains?"

"Not too bad now," Nica lied. "Get the odd twinge, but nothing I can't handle. Fingers crossed today's the day I get out of here." She laughed.

"Well, we're gonna miss you if you do. Just take it easy, you've been through a hell of a lot this last three weeks. If Dr Hastelow wants you to stay here a little longer then it's for a reason, believe me. What time's your appointment?" Jess grabbed the breakfast trolley and started to wheel it back towards the door.

"One o'clock." Nica said as she took a bite of her toast.

"Well I hope you get the green light, don't forget to say goodbye if you do yeah?" Jess smiled as she left, pretty much the same way she entered, backwards and pulling a trolley full of drinks and toast.

The rest of the morning had passed uneventfully for Nica really. She'd taken it easy, like she was constantly reminded to do, the hardest she'd pushed herself being when one of the other nurses had brought her a newspaper from the reading area. After reading it back to front she'd decided to tackle the crossword and was now stuck on seventeen down. 'Tea set usually inherited.' It read. Six letters. After receiving her inheritance from her mother's estate, albeit belatedly, she had figured that this would be pretty easy. She sat, arms folded, pain rippling outwards from her chest as she bit the tip of the pen. Suddenly it dawned on her, the answer was in her head all along. 'Estate!' how could she not see that? It was a cryptic clue! Just as she put pen to paper her room door opened, Jess once again sticking her head in.

"Almost one o'clock hun." She beamed as she entered the room. "Need a little help getting in your chair?"

"No, thanks." Nica said as she set the paper down, grabbing the controls for the bed and lowering it to a level which enabled her to slide across and into her wheelchair. Throwing the covers from her legs she hunched herself up from the mattress and walked herself to the edge of the bed, grabbing the arms of her wheelchair and sliding herself into the seat, her legs flopping to the ground, dangling lifelessly until Nica leaned forward and lifted them into the supports.

"You want a push?" Jess asked.

"Yeah, if you wouldn't mind." Nica responded, a dull ache appearing across her chest.

"Of course not." Jess approached the back of Nica's chair and slowly started to push.

It didn't take long to reach Dr Hastelow's office, it was only a couple of floors up and the elevators in the hospital were incredibly reliable. As Nica was wheeled in, right on time, the black leather chair behind Dr Hastelow's huge solid oak desk spun to reveal the doctor himself sitting and looking over Nica's file. His perfectly manicured grey hair combed into a side parting, his youthful looks carefully hiding the fifty six years he'd clocked up. His eyes fell on Nica as his face lit up with joy.

"Nica..." He gushed. "Nica... How are you?" He asked as he sat forward, dropping the file on the desk.

"I'm really well." She answered returning the smile, her face illuminated.

"Good, good." He leaned back again. "How have you slept? You look incredibly rested."

"Yeah," She replied. "I slept really well, thank you."

"Good, that's good. Important too. When a person has been through a traumatic experience, like yours, we do advise to get as much rest as possible. Remember, it's not just the body, but the mind that needs to recover as well."

"Yeah, I seriously feel great. So much better than last week. I don't know what to say, you've all be great." She laughed a little as she spoke, the gratitude genuinely leaping from her tongue. He stared at her for a couple of seconds before leaning forward again and opening the file, browsing it carefully.

"How are you doing with the pains?" He asked without looking up. "Any medication to handle that?"

He was asking, but Nica knew full well he had the information right there in front of him. Nica decided the best course of action was to be as honest as possible and hopefully he'd trust her as she lied through her teeth later on.

"I've been having a little here and there, but nothing too much. Mainly just ibuprofen and paracetomol." She answered honestly

"I see." Dr Hastelow acknowledged, not looking up as he studied her notes. He remained quiet for a few seconds before pulling a sheet of paper out, the rest of the file remaining on the desk. He stood and slowly made his way round to the other side of the desk, pulling up a chair and taking a seat next to Nica.

"What's this?" Nica asked, examining the paper from behind. He turned the paper round and revealed a diagram of a human heart. The detail was incredible, the amount of veins, arteries, vessels, chambers surprised Nica, to the point it made her feel queasy knowing she had one inside her.

"This, well you know what this is... It's a heart." He answered her seriously. "It's not your heart granted, but to be honest Nica this is in a lot better condition than yours."

"How do you mean?" She looked concerned.

"Well your heart has always been a touchy subject as far as your disability goes. I've had the pleasure of viewing your notes, forwarded to me by your specialist back in Chicago, Dr Masur?" He asked.

She nodded.

"Well Dr Masur was good enough to email me your notes." Dr Hastelow carried on. "Your heart wasn't in the greatest condition before you ended up here with us, and... I'm afraid to say it's not good Nica. This right here..." He pulled a pen from the breast pocket of his smock and ran it along Nica's t-shirt, right where her stitches ran along her chest. "This is the problem. You were lucky enough in a sense that the knife missed your heart."

Nica nodded again, struggling to focus as she listened intently.

"But..." He continued. "It did pass very close, millimetres in fact. And although it didn't make contact with the heart itself, it did glance what we call the superior vena cava. The blade must have been pushed so far in that it slid between this and what we call the aorta. Luckily, no damage was done to the aorta, if it had then there's a very good chance you wouldn't be sat here with me right now." He paused for a second, his eyes flitting to Nica, then back to the diagram. He held the pen up to the paper and proceeded to give Nica the news. "Now the problem we have Nica is that the superior vena cava is one of the main arteries that delivers blood to the heart, straight into the right atrium. Now this isn't like most parts of the heart, it doesn't have a valve to regulate intake, it's a steady, constant flow of deoxygenated blood direct from the upper body. Now the problem we have Nica is that with your condition, it's the upper body that you continuously use. Now if it was the inferior vena cava that had been damaged, then I wouldn't have been as concerned." He paused and held his hands up. "Don't get me wrong, it would still be something we'd need to monitor, but with that handling the flow of blood from the 'bottom' half, then obviously with your condition, we wouldn't have to worry you doing too much and putting strain on the artery."

"What are you trying to say?" Nica asked, bewildered.

"What I'm trying to say Nica, is that with everything you do being upper body, every action increases the flow of blood through the superior vena cava. The knife didn't slice it open, but it did strike it and it does look to have weakened it in two areas. Now the more you do, the more strenuous the task, you're increasing the flow of blood and putting the artery under more and more pressure. I'm afraid that if you push too much, then it may rupture, and if that happens then I'm afraid there's nothing we can do." Dr Hastelow finished.

"I see." Nica was gobsmacked, shocked.

"For example," Dr Hastelow carried on. "I notice you needed a little help with your wheelchair. Is that something you've always had? It's just you strike me as a fairly independent person. One who likes to do as much for herself as possible?"

"I do." She nodded.

"So you've found yourself unable to physically get around since the incident?" He asked.

"Not really. It's just a little harder. More tiring, that's all. I feel stronger with each day." She lied.

"I see." Dr Hastelow said as he placed the pen back in his pocket. "How do you feel about being discharged?"

"Really?" Nica couldn't believe it. This was what she'd been hoping for.

"Only," He paused holding up his hand, index finger extended. "Only if you're confident you can manage. I'm more than happy to give you a bed for another few days and we'd be able to see how things go from there. To be honest, that's my ideal scenario."

"Seriously, I feel fine. A bit tired maybe, but that's to be expected right? Until my strength comes back?" She pleaded. Dr Hastelow stared her out for a few seconds before breaking the silence.

"How about, and this is just an idea. But how about we arrange a motorized wheelchair?" He asked. "Something to take the strain off your arms. For the time being. I could have one for you by the end of the day."

Nica thought about it for a second, immediately seeing problems with her future plans.

"Seriously, Dr Hastelow, I'll be fine. If I do find I'm getting tired, the pains are becoming more intense, I can always arrange to come back and give it a go then. Yeah?"

"Well," He replied as he stood and placed his hands on his hips. "If that's the way you want to do it then I guess we can take each day as it comes. Besides your heart and the wound, you're in pretty good shape. Everything looks to be healing well and in another couple of weeks, we may even be able to stop dressing the scar on your chest. How is that by the way?"

"My scar?" Nica responded as she placed her hand on her chest. There were times this last week that the stitches had made her chest feel tight as her heart began to pound, her ears feeling the thudding of her pulse as she performed simple tasks. A couple of times she'd been worried the stitches may burst.

"Yes Nica, the scar. Has it been giving you any trouble? Do the stitches feel comfortable?" He asked as he perched himself on the end of his desk, arms folded.

"It feels pretty good considering." She lied again. "A little uncomfortable, but that's natural after what happened right?"

"I suppose it is." Dr Hastelow laughed. He stood from the edge of the desk and extended his right hand to Nica, giving her a caring smile. "If you feel well enough to go home then who am I to stop you? Just promise to get in touch if anything happens. I'll make arrangements with my secretary to see you in a couple of weeks just to check you over again." Nica's hand shot out as she grinned from ear to ear, grabbing the good doctor's hand and shaking it gently.

"Thank you doctor. Thank you so much for all you've done. I guess I'll see you in two weeks." She replied happily.

As Nica waited in the lobby of the hospital, bag packed, she spotted a payphone over by the entrance. Grabbing her bag, she lifted it gingerly and placed it on her lap as she started to slowly and carefully wheel herself across the lobby and to the payphones. Opening her bag she removed her purse and rummaged around looking for a quarter, before lifting the receiver and slipping the money into the slot. The phone call wasn't one she had wanted to make, but she felt it necessary in light of recent events. After five minutes she'd spoken to the appropriate people and made herself an appointment for the following afternoon, 2pm. Just as she replaced the phone she glanced out of the lobby doors and saw her cab pulling into the collection point, right on time. She dropped her purse into her bag and zipped it up, placing her hands on the wheels of her chair, spinning on the spot and heading to the automatic doors of the hospital. As she approached the cab, the driver noticed her and opened his door, standing in one fluid movement and flashing her a welcoming smile.

"You must be Nica." He beamed as she came to a stop in front of him.

"Yeah, that's me." She answered.

"You okay with getting in and out?" He asked as he slid the rear door of the cab open.

Nica couldn't believe the hospital had ordered her a cab with disabled access. It was more like a minivan, she thought as the driver bent forward and unfolded a ramp from the rear door to the kerb. The interior was huge compared to standard cabs, Nica couldn't believe it. This was something she could get used to as she steadily wheeled herself up the incline and into the rear of the cab.

"All clear miss?" The driver joked as he folded the ramp back up and slid the door shut.

As he jumped in the front seat and flicked the button for the ignition, Nica leaned forward.

"What's your name?" She asked as he slipped the cab into gear. He looked up into the rear view mirror and his eyes locked onto Nica's, his smile widening as he chewed on his gum. His jet black afro made his Caribbean descendents all the more obvious as he answered, Nica noticing a hint of West Indian texture to his accent.

"Nigel, miss." He replied.

"Well Nigel," Nica asked. "Can you give me a ride tomorrow? About half past one?"

"Sure." He answered as the cab started to move off. "Where we need to be at that time tomorrow Nica?"

Nica fixed him a stare, ice cold and determined.

"Longcroft Asylum!" She answered, her hairs standing as one and her spine turning to ice.

Blinking, trembling, the shattered body of David Jacobs sat up on the cold, hard bed of the dank, urine soaked cell it had come to regard as home. Yet again, the light flickered through the window high up in the wall, blinding to the eyes as it burned through his retinas. What day was it? Had he even been to sleep? He lifted his hand out from under the covers of the bed, turning it over, glaring at it as if he'd never seen it before. He tried hard to stop the shaking, but it was no good. He was ill and he knew it. He'd been to see the asylum doctor, the antibiotics having no effect whatsoever, the doctor now at a loss to diagnose anything other than a common flu. But it wasn't flu. He'd had flu. True it had been nearly twenty six years ago since he last felt an illness, never mind one as debilitating as this, and he knew it wasn't flu. His finger nail had dropped off as he slept, the bare, raw skin underneath exposed and filthy from the unwashed bedding. He pulled his sleeve up and examined his arm. Bruises had appeared up his wrist and forearm, winding their way up to his shoulder, yellow, blue and black, the ugliness startling him as the body he inhabited started to fall to pieces. He still had no idea what was happening to him, this was a first, no doubt about it. His mind had been racing ever since being brought up here, the theatre of screams known as Longcroft Asylum closing in around him, trying in earnest to break his mind, fracture his very soul. But he had hung in so far, he wasn't going to let it beat him. The body may be lacking but, his mind had started to grow sharp again, an opportunity would reveal itself and he'd need his wits about him to take full advantage. He knew that strength wasn't on his side, the guards at this place were miniature mountains of flesh and blood, not ones to hesitate when a swift beating was deemed to be the answer. He'd heard the cries, the screams from down the hall as they echoed along the bare stone walls of the asylum, filtering through every door, every window and delivering the message that nothing was tolerated here. Act out? Beating. Back chat? Beating. Don't do as you're told? Another beating. The pattern emerged very early on that there was a set of rules to adhere to, and although he liked to think of himself as untouchable, he now knew that this was far from the case. This new body, everything he'd dreamed of for the last twenty six years, not living up to the expectations. For years he'd been able to sink into the background, practically invincible, biding his time, waiting for that one killer moment then BOOM out he'd pop. Before some poor fucker knew what hit them, he'd come and go, only to repeat the same process time and again. He lay back, lowering his hand and pulling the covers over the top half of his body as he shivered frantically. Maybe this David guy had medication he should have been taking. There must be something, some reason why he was suffering so much. Leaning forward, he lifted his hand to his mouth, clenched into a fist and coughed harshly, the air rattling through his lungs, wheezing as the last bit of carbon monoxide was wrung from his broken body. Something was unusual though, as he sat back and opened his fist he was alarmed at the view gracing him. Blood was sprayed liberally over the palm of his hand, bits of mucus and even a couple of teeth sat coated in the scarlet, viscous liquid. Lifting his other hand, he extended a finger and ran it around the inside of his mouth, feeling at his teeth. Sure enough he was missing two teeth, one upper, one lower, both from the left hand side. The pain was agonizing as it shot through the nerves and into his cheek, making his ears ache and his head pound. As he coughed again he turned and laid face down on the pillow by his side, coughing over and over, all the while feeling the sticky mixture soak into the pillow, spreading across the surface. He finally finished coughing and lifted his head, the last of his strength gathered together in one monumental effort as he had a look at the pillow. Another couple of teeth, blobs of red gristle, mucus and a thick puddle of fresh blood greeted him again. Rolling onto his back he lay there, trying to get his bearings before flopping over the edge and falling face first to the floor with a crunch. He slowly pulled himself to his feet and started to stagger over to the toilet, his eyes never leaving their target as he threw one foot in front of the other, over and over again. He got about half way, underwear halfway down, before his legs gave up the ghost and buckled under his now minimal weight. As he lay there, halfway between life and death, he heard the door to his cell click, the large heavy lock rotating as the key turned. Then a voice.

"Jacobs!" The voice hollered. "Visitor!"

As the cab had approached the incredibly high walls of Longcroft, the first thing Nica noticed was the intimidating appearance of the facility. Green Acre was like Disneyland compared to this place. Although situated within the middle of the countryside surrounding the city and engulfed in forest, this was a completely different beast to what she had known. Back at Green Acre she'd had a modern facility, welcoming to the eye. Here, this was like something from a history book. It was more like a castle. She had to calm herself, remembering that she was only visiting, that she could come away at any time, but the feeling of impending dread would never fully subside. Today had already been a weird one as she woke that morning, the house seeming strange after standing empty for over three weeks. Joel had been round and straightened up the living room, mopped up, run around with a duster, but she still couldn't imagine that place ever feeling like home. Not now, after what had happened. Her nightmares following her, in more ways than one, all the way from Chicago. She had sat trying to summon the courage for what she was about to do, all morning she had sat thinking of what to say. But then she asked herself other questions. What would 'he' say? How would 'he' react? At one point it had crossed her mind that this may not be the best idea she'd ever had, but she plucked up the strength to see it through, and as Nigel had pulled up outside, giving her a wave and flash of a smile, she had left the house, promising herself she wouldn't look back. The journey here had been a quiet one, Nica lost in her own thoughts, snapping out of her stupor to occasionally answer the odd question thrown to her by her charismatic driver. Telling her about how his family had moved to California from New Orleans when he was just a baby, asking her about her upbringing, her parents, anything really, the average chatty cab driver. Eventually the conversation dried up and Nica once again sank into an endless sea of despair. Was she doing the right thing? Fuck it. She was going in there because that's the last thing 'he' would expect. And she was going to get some answers whether he wanted to give them to her or not. Suddenly the cab came to a stop at the entrance, the double doors looking incredibly out of place in amongst the huge stone walls of Longcroft. After waiting a few minutes for Nigel to do his door and ramp routine, Nica made her way into the facility and to reception, asking Nigel to keep the meter running and wait for her. Something he seemed happy to do. As she approached the desk, the old man hunched over turned and spotted her.

"Hello Miss." He greeted her. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah," She answered. "I'm here to see somebody. A patient. I called yesterday about a visitor pass."

"I see. " He replied handing her a clipboard, the paper clipped to it baring various names. "Just sign yourself in Miss and I'll sort you out your pass no problem."

Nica examined the paper and eventually found what she was looking for. 'Jacobs, David – 2pm'. Nica signed her name and handed the clipboard back to the guard. He took it from her gently and leaned forward, placing a visitor pass over her head and letting it fall, hanging around her neck like an Olympic medal.

"You want to go down the hall and take the third left Miss. You'll find the other visitors in there. Might want to hurry up though, they'll be taking you all across soon."

"Thank you." Nica smiled as she spun on the spot and made her way down the hall.

Eventually she found the waiting room, filled with other people visiting various friends/families. She heard one mention that she'd never met the person she was visiting, but had been writing to him for years as part of some pen pal scheme. Nica found the thought disturbing in a way, but decided who was she to judge? If these people knew the reason she was here they may have cause to doubt her sanity too. Within a few minutes the door on the far side of the waiting room opened and a guard appeared, beckoning people through as he explained he was to escort them across the courtyard and to the visitor hall. This seemed very different to Green Acre. Very different. As they reached the far corner of the courtyard, the guard pulled a set of keys and unlocked the double doors to the visitor hall. Tables were set up in rows, eight across by eight down, all in all sixty-four tables. The guard took any sharp objects and even the odd gift that some people appeared to bring before issuing them each with a ticket and moving them on, all the while a handful of his colleague patrolled the balconies high up in the corners of the room, no doubt keeping an eagle eye on proceedings. As Nica reached the front of the queue the guard asked who she was to see and gave her a ticket, which read 'Table 34'. As Nica wheeled herself onwards and into the mass of tables, she tried to find some order to the system the guards used. Sure enough she found table 34. Right where it belonged, in between table 15 and table 28, the guards obviously developing their own system of seating. Now all she had to do was sit and wait. Once everybody had been seated, the guards repeated various warnings. The first being that nobody was to, under any circumstances, be found passing any contraband items to the person they were visiting. They also issued a one strike warning with regards to violence. Anybody found to act in a violent manner would be escorted from the premises and prosecuted. Once everybody acknowledged the rules the guards unlocked the door and began letting patients file in one at a time. Nica sat and waited for a good ten minutes before she saw him, and she was speechless. As he was wheeled from behind the bars and up to the table, Nica almost felt a twinge of pity for him as she feasted her eyes on the dishevelled half dead man sat across from her, wheelchair and all. She had not expected this. She had expected him to be full of life, arguing, raging, finally seeing Nica and darting for her before guards could hold him back. She wasn't sure now whether to feel happy or disappointed. As she gathered her thoughts she took a deep breath and began to speak.

"Well..." She said calmly. "Isn't this a turn up for the books?"

He didn't move. Just sat in his wheelchair and stared over Nica's shoulder, into space as drool dribbled from the corner of his mouth, the blue overalls they had dressed him in a couple sizes too big, dwarfing his frail body.

"What's the matter Charles?" She asked.

Something...

His eyes instantly shot to her, his breathing became a little deeper. Nica continued.

"I don't know what you did you sick son of a bitch but I'm going to find out." She spat at him silently, desperately trying not to alert the guards. "What happened to David? Where is he? What the fuck did you do to him?" She demanded.

His eyes unmoving, a smile slowly started to form across his lips and he began to laugh, only a little laugh. Quiet, eerie, disturbing and haunting.

"Don't you fucking dare!" Nica tried to shoot him down, but it didn't have the desired effect. Then he spoke. A whisper, floating along through the air and gradually landing on Nica's ears, sickening her to the very core.

"He's gone." Charles said. "You'll never see him again." He paused, taking another breath. "Only the devil knows what's in store for him!"

"How did you do it?" Nica begged as quietly as she could, but it was no use. His smile became even bigger as he winked at her. The kind of wink that said 'that's for me to know and you to find out.'

"I came here expecting a slightly more challenging encounter." Nica sat back in her wheelchair and spoke calmly. "What do I find? You're even more useless than me. Look at you! I doubt you'll last the week in here." Suddenly his eyes narrowed as he took in what she said.

"Really?" His voice groaned.

Nica nodded her head.

"You look half dead already. Guess this is karma coming round and biting you on the ass."

"Well." He groaned again, sitting up as best he could. "At least I'll feel it when it bites. Unlike you."

"I've seen enough. You're pathetic. I don't know why I bothered. I should just go home and wait for them to call me with the news that you're dead." She laughed. "You really think that you can call shots in here? No. You can't. How does it feel now the tables are turned? Now you're the one in here with nobody to believe you, while I'm on the outside, free to go wherever I want, whenever I want." She lifter her hand into the air alerting the guard. As he approached he spoke.

"Everything alright Miss?" He enquired.

"Yeah," Nica said. "We're done here. Thanks." She turned her attention back to him as he sat motionless. "I'm going to find out what the fuck you did, and then I'm going to find out how to fucking finish you once and for all. I'll succeed where Andy Barclay god damn failed!" She spun to leave but could just hear him trying to say something. "What did you say?" Nica turned back to him as he sat, staring blankly, his mouth moving over and over, repeating the same sentence.

"Slut mother." He repeated himself again, louder, laughing slightly.

Nica turned again and started wheeling herself towards the exit as she heard his voice getting louder, people distracted from their conversations as his voice started to grow in both volume and strength. She could hear him louder now than when she was sat in front of him.

"Slut mother!" He shouted before finding even more energy and bellowing it after her as she left. "LIKE YOUR FUCKING SLUT MOTHER YOU FUCKING BITCH!" He screamed, his voice rippling with hatred and anger as several guards appeared from nowhere and surrounded him. Nica wasn't sure what had happened, but she had a feeling she had just awoken something deep within him, something that would've been better to let lie.

Back home Nica had one objective. Pulling her laptop out from under the coffee table, she fired it up and instantly logged onto Google, taking time to have a sip of her coffee as she slipped her on her glasses and started searching. First search of the day?

'Chucky Doll Murders'

The search returned with a decent amount of sites. There were things she'd seen before everything went belly up back home, the night Barb and Ian died. Niagara Falls, Chicago, L.A, Kent Military Academy, the old Play Pals factory. As she read Nica found herself getting confused. Maybe she'd had too little sleep, maybe she just wasn't looking in the right places, but nowhere was able to tell her how the hell he'd managed to get into the doll in the first place. Some sites hazarded a guess at witchcraft, some put it down to a curse, some also said that the whole thing was made up, the urban legend proving to be exactly that. In the end Nica headed back to Google and typed in another search term.

'Charles Lee Ray'

Sites quickly came back, not as many, but some. The bastard even had a Wikipedia page. 'What kind of sick fucker would write this?' Nica found herself thinking out loud. As she read, she discovered that Charles Lee Ray had indeed been shot by Detective Mike Norris on the night of November 9th 1988, just like he had said to her months ago as he blamed her mother for his ending up the way he did. Nica read further and found that the place he died was now actually a Chinese restaurant, the toy shop closing down and going out of business less than a year after Charles Lee Ray's death. Nica assumed that this was the same toy shop that he had found the Good Guy doll in which to place himself. This was all well and good, but it provided nothing that Nica needed, ideally answers. So she looked further down the page and found something that may yield more information. Charles Lee Ray's body was buried in Hackensack, New Jersey. Without knowing why, something spoke to Nica, telling her this could be a good place to start looking as she began to unravel the mysteries behind the legend. Without taking her eyes from the screen, Nica grabbed the phone from the side of the laptop and began dialled 'Information'. As a voice appeared on the other end of the line Nica spoke.

"Hello?" She began. "Yes, San Diego International Airport please."

She drummed her fingers on the desk as she continued reading the website. Finally her call was connected.

"Hello, yes. I'm looking for a flight to Hackensack, New Jersey?" Nica asked.

"Yes ma'am." The gentleman on the other end answered as he looked up the details. "The next flight we have is tomorrow afternoon at 2:25pm, that lands at JFK International Airport, which isn't the nearest airport to Hackensack, but if you wait for Newark or LaGuardia then you're talking another couple hundred dollars, and the next flight to either of them isn't for another two days."

"Fair enough." Nica replied. "Book me on the flight for tomorrow afternoon."

After giving her credit card details, Nica hung up the phone and returned to the laptop, confident she had done the right thing. But no idea why.

'This is it then.' She thought to herself.

'Hackensack here I come! And after that... I'm finding Andy Barclay!'


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Another night of broken sleep, bouncing from wall to wall, the madness creeping over him even more as he sat and watched his relatively new, yet surprisingly fragile body falling to pieces. Running a hand through his hair he felt something unusual, soft, fleshy and sickly. Pulling his hand away from his scalp, he was disgusted at the sight that greeted him. In his hand was a mass of tangled black hair and blood, his scalp breaking up, cracking and beginning to bleed under the slightest touch. As he sat looking at it, horrified, he rolled his tongue around his mouth and felt something that had become familiar throughout the night. Still casting his gaze upon the hand full of hair, skin and blood, he raised his opposite hand to his mouth and inserted his thumb and index finger , feeling around until finally he found it, removing his fingers to reveal yet another tooth. As he withdrew his hand from his mouth, the blood began to dribble from his lip and down his chin, developing into a steady stream before finally growing into a torrent of crimson. He finally noticed this and grabbed the bed sheets, plunging them into his mouth in a valiant last effort to soak up the escaping blood, now so thin that he could feel it racing through his system, the blood cells breaking up as though a mysterious virus was ravaging him from the inside. As he sat, he leaned back against the cold, bare stone walls of his cell and felt every contour, every jagged edge of the masonry digging into his back, pain exploding as the nerves up and down his body screamed in agony, more often than not, all at once. He didn't like to admit it, but he was scared. For the first time since he couldn't remember, he was scared shitless, not knowing what was happening. The last time he'd felt like this had been twenty six years previous, the night of November 9th 1988 as he had been pursued through the streets of downtown Chicago by the police, in particular that son of a bitch Mike Norris. So near, yet so far as he approached the van, Eddie sat inside waiting, metres from escape. He remembered diving across the hood of the car as the bullets whizzed past his head, inches between them as he felt the ripple the shells made, shattering the air as they tore past. Then suddenly, as he'd made a run for it, the bastard got lucky, a bullet catching him in the thigh and sending him crashing to the ground. He'd sat up and returned shots of his own when a police car had come screaming out of nowhere. Then just as he'd gotten to his feet, limping as fast as he could towards the van, Eddie did the first thing a lot of people do when they panic. He ran. Charles had to admit, he'd probably have done the same if he'd have been in Eddie's shoes, but the raging fact was that he wasn't. And from that moment on, Eddie had effectively signed his own death warrant as far as Charles was concerned. He begged him not to leave, literally begged as he chased after the van, exposed, in the open, just ready to be picked off by that fucker Norris. But there'd been nothing he could do, as Eddie floored it, the van took off, the police car wailing by, siren screaming, nearly taking Charles out in the process. There had been many times over the course of the last twenty five years or so that Charles figured they'd have been much better off if the cop car had swerved and 'accidentally' taken him out. But in failing to do so, they did him a favour, blissfully unaware of the havoc headed their way. But luckily enough Norris had decided to track him from behind a row of parked cars, giving him the opportunity to make a run for it, the nearest hiding place the doorway of a kids toy store. What was the name now? Play... Playland Toys. That was it. How could he forget. That wasn't just the place he'd died in, that was also the place he'd been born in. Cast from the jaws of death and delivered into the world kicking and screaming again. He remembered the powerless feeling he had felt as he had been stalked around the store, hiding in between the displays, looking, searching for a chance to train his sights on that fucking cop, all the while Mike Norris screaming at him to give it up, claiming it was 'over'. He'd fucking show him though, it wasn't over until he decided it was over. Seizing his chance he'd raised his pistol and fired, just missing Norris, never expecting the return fire to come as swiftly as it did, the shot catching him full in the chest, the right side of his body melting in pain and fear. That was when shit got real, as he started struggling, noticing that he was dying, his only option to do something drastic, something that he wasn't even sure would work. His rage came racing to the surface as he gave up his position voluntarily, screaming at Norris, bellowing out his threats, that he wasn't finished with him and Eddie Caputo. He'd get them... No matter what. That was when he'd realised he needed something, somebody, anybody, the fear relenting slightly as he fell into a display of Good Guy dolls, the tower of boxes falling over him as he fainted from the loss of blood. It was that moment he'd glanced at one of the dolls, grinning at him from a box. He didn't get it at first, almost did a double take in fact, but then it dawned on him. This was exactly what he needed. How fucked up that the very last thing he could use to save his life would be this little red headed doll? Removing the doll from the box he had started reciting the chant, hearing the thunder begin to clap overhead as the storm sprang from nowhere. As he reached the end of the chant he felt electricity race through his body and... Charles stopped reminiscing suddenly as something in his cell caught his eye. It was a rat. Not a big one but a rat none the less. It hadn't seen him either as it scurried across the floor and over towards the toilet. Stopping to sit up occasionally, the rat started running again, stopping at the base of the toilet, used paper thrown all over the floor, the smell unbearable, urine, faeces, blood, they all graced the various balls of waste paper scrunched up and hurled to the floor. As the rat sniffed around the base of the toilet bowl, Charles gingerly leant forward, pulling the dirty, blood stained bed sheets from his blood encrusted mouth and throwing them to the top end of the bed. Placing his hands palm down by his sides, he slowly, quietly pushed himself forward eventually reaching a squatting position, legs bent at the knees, hands gripping the bed frame, every muscle in his decaying body burning under the strain as he fought to keep himself balanced. His eyes never left his visitor as he concentrated, moving slightly to the left, getting the rat, now distracted with various balls of toilet paper, lined up with his body. Relaxing his legs a little he tightened his grip on the frame of the bed and let his body slowly swing back before firing every last ounce of strength into his calf muscles, throwing himself, launching his body into the air and towards the filthy concrete floor. He remained quiet as he soared, arms extended, through the air, hitting the rough, jagged floor with a thump before bringing his hands together, wrapping them around his disgusting trespasser, sliding slightly as his shoulder hit the toilet basin with a sickening crack, the pain sending a shockwave through his entire upper body. He clenched his teeth together as the agony became unbearable, clamping his eyes shut as he waited for the pain to subside. He opened his eyes and kept his hands together as he very slowly and laboriously struggled to his knees, all the while feeling the dirty, flea bitten vermin wriggling under his grip. Concentration etched across his face, he slowly opened the top of his hands, only to catch the rat as it tried in vain to escape, struggling as it made attempt after attempt to wriggle through his clutches.

"Ha ha..." He cackled hysterically, happiness seeping through the laughter before his face took on a more serious and deadly expression. Gripping the rat tightly in both hands, he carefully lifted it up to his face, staring at it in wonder, the life in his hands about to be extinguished in one savage act. "Got you. You little fucker!"

He looked to the door, then back to his bed. The chilling image of lost hair, congealed blood, rotten black finger nails and dirty, decayed teeth making a very unpleasant view. Had he really sunk to this? Is this how it would end? Turning back to the rat he looked it in the eye and brought it to his mouth, his lips parting, but facing resistance as his own dried blood stuck them together. On his knees, hands cupped in front of his face he suddenly snapped his head forward and, using his three remaining teeth, took a huge chunk out of the rats neck, the artery he caught severing immediately as blood was ejected with force, splashing across his face as he tore through the flesh, sucking the blood from the veins and ripping the meat into his mouth. The rat shrieked in terror, confusion and pain as it frantically struggled, harder still, to escape the clutches of its captor. Charles sat back, leaning against the now bloody bed frame, and began to chew the meat between his remaining teeth eventually giving up and using his sore and bloody gums to pulp the meat into something his throat could attempt to swallow. As he sat, suddenly feeling fulfilled, a mixture of bloods staining his face, the rat suddenly ceased fighting and gave up its life, the situation too much to bear. It was at this moment, as he took another huge bite, tearing the skin from the bones, that he heard the lock of his cell door start to open, the old iron mechanism lifting with a 'clunk'. As the door was being unlocked he heard the familiar voice of one of the Longcrofts security guards.

"Another visitor Jacobs." He hollered as the lock finally retreated fully, the door beginning to open. "Two in two days. Must be your cologne..." He didn't finish the sentence, the view of the cell leaving him speechless. The smell was enough to make him retch, but the scene before him was one of insanity and horror. Blood all over, hair matted together, teeth strewn across the floor and David Jacobs sat chewing on what looked like... A rat?!

"Jesus" The guard exclaimed at the sight. Turning to address his colleagues down the hall he issued a command, urgency rippled through his words. "Get me a damned straight jacket!"

Standing in line as she entered the visitors' hall, the woman opened her bag and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Her shoulder length blonde hair, incredibly short dress and high heels had made her the target of almost every guard in the room as she entered from the courtyard, and she was pleased with this. Her intention had been to capture the attention of one of the guards, maybe a couple, but the reaction she'd had upon arriving had been nothing short of perfect. As she stood waiting to reach the front of the queue she noticed people handing over packages, some gift wrapped, some not, as the guards confiscated them and allocated them a table number. Thinking fast she removed a cigarette from the packet and placed it between her lips. No sooner had she pulled the lighter from her purse, a hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled her from the queue, losing her place. The young guard looked at her apologetically as he pointed to the 'No Smoking' sign on the far wall by the entrance.

"Sorry Miss." He shook his head. "Can't let you be smoking in here I'm afraid."

She looked at him and gave him a smile as she slowly removed the cigarette from her lips, the lipstick slightly staining the filter. As she spoke, the guard was alarmed at how different her voice sounded to the average female visitor to Longcroft. They were usually rough, full of colourful language, teeth missing. Not this one though. This one was gorgeous. Dressed in Versace, beautiful hair, premium looking jewellery, killer heels, stockings, the works. He tried his best, but he couldn't help giving her body a quick look over. Her legs went on forever, the hourglass figure finished off with the most exquisite chest he had ever seen. Then she spoke. He was half and half on the voice. In a way it annoyed him immediately, while all along it sparked with a sexual energy, high pitched and sleazy.

"I'm so sorry..." She apologised as she stared him dead in the eye and tilted her head, noticing his name badge. "...Luke." She laughed as she returned the cigarette to its pack and zipped up her purse, struggling as her other hand was preoccupied with something else. A present for her man.

"Yeah I just had to let you know..." He shook his head and laughed. "Do you have name? Miss?"

"Tiffany." She answered with a smile as she leaned in a little closer, whispering in his ear. "Or Miss..." She pulled back and gave him a seductive smile.

The guard smiled back, thinking his luck was in.

"Okay... Who are you here to see? Friend? Boyfriend?" He asked.

"Oh it's just a friend." She replied calmly. "Truth be told, I haven't seen much of him lately. Kind of an asshole really. But, some things are sent to test us. Been asked to pay him a visit, deliver this fucking thing." She held up a doll, ugly looking thing, red hair, freckles, stitching across the face. The kind of thing a psycho would play with.

"Right." He replied, taking the doll and rolling it around in his hands, giving it a once over. "I have to take it and screen it. Make sure there's no drugs, weapons, etcetera. If it comes out clean then I guess he can have it."

"Oh thank god." She gushed. "He freaks out without this thing. Used to talk to it all the time. It's like part of him, if you get my drift." She laughed, grabbing Luke by the wrist.

"Who is it you're here to see Tiffany?" Luke enquired.

"David Jacobs? I have a pass." She held up the visitor pass, hanging from her neck.

"Okay." He turned to the guard at the front of the queue and motioned for his notepad. As he examined the guest list he spoke again, issuing Tiffany with a ticket and beckoning her to follow him. "We've got you down here, table 4. He's not been too well recently, so just prepare yourself for a bit of a different person to the last time you saw him."

"You can say that again." Tiffany muttered under her breath as she took a seat at table 4.

"I'm sorry?" Luke asked.

"Nothing sweetface." She replied as she sat, crossing her legs and giving Luke yet another smile.

"You need anything or if he starts getting animated. Just give me a shout." He advised as he turned to the gate, David Jacobs been led through by two guards in a straight jacket.

"I don't think that'll be a problem." She said as her eyes fell on him.

As they led him to the table, a few people turned and looked, the sight of a straight jacket not as common these days. The guards walked him to the table and pulled his chair out, finally letting him flop, exhausted into the seat and leaving him alone with his visitor. As she let her eyes take in this new face, eroded, worn, wrinkled and old she couldn't believe it. She was speechless. What had he done to himself? She looked around, making sure to check if anybody was eavesdropping, before leaning in and whispering to him.

"Chucky?!" She spat. "What the fuck?"

His eyes were glassed over, she didn't know if it was medication or he was seriously ill, but something was drastically wrong with him.

"Can you hear me?" She hissed again.

His eyes rolled down to look at her as his face stayed staring upwards into the corner of the room.

"It's me!" She said a little louder, her face taking on a repulsed look as she lifted her hand to her nose, the smell was pure evil. "What's happening to you?"

He finally replied, but it was pretty inaudible. It wasn't just quiet, but it was muffled too, mumbled.

"What?" She shot him a panicked look.

"Hey, how you doing honey?" He slurred, a little louder this time.

"Better than you!" She looked confused at him. "What's happened to you?"

"I dunno..." his voice trailed off. "I think..." He coughed, a little blood appearing on his lips. "I think... I'm dying?"

"But that's impossible!" She was dumbstruck. "Can that happen?"

"Looks like it..." he trailed off again.

Tiffany sat back and folded her arms, thinking. Looked like she'd come at just the right time.

"You may just be the luckiest bastard I know!" She laughed. "You know that?"

The look that spread across his face was priceless.

"Lucky?" He slurred again. "Lucky?" His voice got a little louder this time.

"You know how much I've had to do to find you?" She continued. "I visited that crash site. I found the heart of Damballa hanging from a tree, and I knew, I just knew you'd finally done it."

Chucky looked at her blankly.

"Thought you might have come looking for me though. I have to admit, I was a little upset when I didn't hear anything from you. It took me weeks to find you. You know how many cops I've had to bribe trying to find you between this place and Chicago? Half of them took the money and ran too. Tell you it's so hard to bribe an honest cop these days."

"Sorry. I had things to..." She cut him off immediately.

"Oh I know. You had your precious vengeance to reap on that damned disabled girl. That's how I found you." She paused, taking a breath. "Last week you were in the paper, raging about being Charles Lee Ray, sent to the nut house. So I put two and two together and figured I'd let you stew for a week or so before I came in here and offered you a way out."

Chucky looked at her inquisitively.

"Your only way out..." She finished. "I've brought you something. Something familiar. Told them it would help you out no end."

His eyes lit up, part of him burning alive inside as her words graced his ears, like music to a child.

"You mean you've brought..." She cut in again, knowing full well she held the cards.

"That depends Chucky. Is it over?" She asked point blank.

"Is what over?" He asked back.

"Your revenge thing with the Pirce family. Is it done?"

"No." He lowered his head.

"Okay..." She also looked down, disappointed. "When will it be?"

"It's just her. I swear. After that... I'm all yours." He tried to crack a smile, but his lips were causing him so much pain it was physically impossible.

"Fair enough." She replied, standing to leave, the chair screeching out behind her long legs as she rose from the chair.

"They'll not let me have it you know." He leaned back. "What you brought. They'll not. You'll have to bribe one of them!"

"I'm through paying for your mistakes." She turned, throwing the strap of her purse over her shoulder. "But let me see what I can do. If you do make it out of here, I'll be waiting. There's a dirt track, about a mile south of here, through the forest, across the stream."

With that she turned to leave, walking back through the visitors hall and towards the exit where Luke was waiting. As she approached he looked up and noticed her headed his way.

"Leaving so soon?" He asked with a smile, his youthful enthusiasm getting in the way, his lust taking over as he spoke to this vision of a woman.

"Afraid so." She smiled. She leaned in closer to him, her lips almost touching his ear. "I have a favour to ask honey." She purred.

"Sure, whatever you need Tiffany... I mean Miss" he replied.

"My friend's a little concerned he won't get his present I left him."

They both turned to the table full of packages and gifts from various other visitors. There in the middle sat the ugly, red headed doll, blue overalls, the lot. As they both turned back to each other, Tiffany spoke again.

"It'd be a shame if he didn't get it. I've come all the way from Chicago with that thing so it'd mean a lot to me that he got it, you know what I mean?" She leaned backwards, perching herself on the end of the table behind her, crossing her legs and running a finger down her cleavage. Luke's eyes followed, fascinated by what he saw.

"Oh I see what you mean." He replied. "How about you leave me your phone number and I'll let you know that it's been delivered?" He asked.

Tiffany seductively winked at him, her arm shooting out, motel room key in her hand, room number 317 of the Holiday Village Motel.

"Tell you what. You do this for me, and we'll celebrate in style. Say tonight? Eight o'clock?" She smiled, her beautiful red lips and sexy, high pitched voice hypnotising her young admirer as she spoke.

"Sounds like a plan." Luke's tone turned serious. "He'll get the doll. I guarantee it."

"Thanks sweet face." She stood straight up, turning on her heels and walking out the door and into the courtyard. She glanced back over her shoulder and flashed him a smile, blowing him a kiss. "See you tonight."

Luke watched as she disappeared through the door.

His luck was definitely in.

Bad luck that was.

As the cab sped through the narrow lanes of traffic, Nica took a deep breath and leaned back. It was getting late when she'd landed at JFK Airport and she desperately needed a good night's sleep before the morning. The cab carefully navigating its way between the parked cars and various road works, she closed her eyes and relaxed, allowing her mind to wander. She found herself reminiscing about the old days, when she was little. She figured her first memory was probably from when she was about five years old. She could remember it now, clear as day, sitting in her wheelchair at the kitchen table as her mom poured her some oatmeal for breakfast, Barb only just having left for school. The table seemed huge to Nica, and she always remembered a bowl of fresh fruit adorning the surface of the table. Always arranged the exact same way, never to be eaten, only for decoration purposes. When the fruit eventually started to turn rotten, her mother would simply have some more delivered along with the weekly shopping, throwing the old fruit out, casting it aside without a second thought.

"Mommy," She would ask innocently as her mother emptied the fruit into the trash. "Why do you throw the fruit out?"

Her mother would usually roll her eyes as Nica began to ask questions, but this time she'd stopped what she was doing and turned her attention to her angel of a daughter.

"Because it's rotten Nica." She would answer. "People can't eat rotten fruit. It doesn't look good either, then the smell... You can forget about that." She would smile as she tied the garbage bag.

"Then why do we buy it?" She asked again, her poor little body cutting a cute and naive figure in her wheelchair. Her mother picked the bag up and gave her a 'What is this? Twenty questions?' look as she stood, one hand on her waist, the other holding the bag full of rotten fruit at arms length.

"We buy it because it looks nice honey." She again answered, her free hand flicking her blonde hair away from her face. "Don't you think it looks nice?"

"Yes." She replied, thinking, concentrating. "But isn't it just a waste? Couldn't we give that to people that need it?" Her mother began to get a little agitated, taking a break from her obsessive cleaning routine flustering her slightly.

"Nica, now why would you say that? Give it to who?" She asked. Nica squinted her eyes and looked upwards, concentrating harder.

"Poor people? That we see on the streets downtown?" She answered her mother, the gap between her two bottom, front teeth showing the tip of her tongue as she spoke, cuteness in abundance.

"Oh Nica..." Her mother stood looking with a tear in her eye, the kindness of her daughter melting her heart the more she spoke. "You just remind me of your father."

"Daddy?" Nica looked puzzled. "Why mommy?"

"Because," She wiped away a tear, the bright yellow cleaning gloves running along her cheeks as she did so. "That's just the kind of thing he would say." Nica looked at her mother, another question bubbling to the surface of her innocent and fragile mind.

"Where is daddy?" Nica's question filled with confusion. "Why hasn't he ever been to see me?"

"Oh Nica," Her mother sunk to her knees, dropping the garbage bag and grabbing Nica's wrists as she sat in her chair. She looked into Nica's eyes, as they both began to weep slightly. "He can't be here baby, he just can't. He had to go away, but it wasn't what he wanted. He'd much rather be here with you. With me, with Barb, all of us together. But he just can't."

"Why?" Nica again asked, the enormity of the situation much bigger than a child could grasp.

"He just can't honey. He just can't." Her mother replied as she leaned in and gave her a cuddle.

As the years passed, and as Nica had gotten older, the answer had changed quite a few times, but Nica remembered as she had approached her tenth birthday, the question was raised once again. They were sitting having dinner one night, her mother, Barb, and Nica herself, when the question was asked. Only this time, it was Barb that broke the news.

"He drowned!" Barb snapped across the dining room table, her mouth half full of the lasagne they'd had that night.

"Barb!" Their mother had spun her head, disgusted at the way Barb had nonchalantly blurted the news out. As she finished grabbing some vegetables from the middle of the table, she turned to Nica, the look of horror on her face for them both to see.

"What's drowned?" Nica asked. She had an idea, but not being the strongest fan of swimming, it was only a rough sketch on her mind. Their mother rested her elbows on the table and lifted a napkin to her mouth, struggling to find a friendly approach to the subject.

"He drowned Nica. He fell in some water and, couldn't get out. That's what drowning is." She answered, hoping this was the end to the conversation. It wasn't.

"Could daddy not swim?" Nica asked again.

"Well, yes." Her mother responded as she ate. "He was a very good swimmer."

"Then why didn't he just swim?" Nica enquired, her eyes flitting between her mother and her sister.

"Well..." Their mother began, but was suddenly interrupted by Barb.

"He hit his head on some rocks!" Barb said, her voice filled with enthusiasm. "He was unconscious."

"Okay Barb, that's enough." Sarah snapped. She turned to Nica and quietly spoke. "Yes honey, he hit his head. That's why he couldn't swim. I know I've never told you this before, but I just didn't think you were old enough. It was just a little over ten years ago now, fall of 1988" She seemed lost in her thoughts before pulling herself together and once again addressing her daughter. "I'm sorry Nica."

Nica gave her mother a loving smile, one that never ceased to amaze her. So beautiful, the way her hair hung down her back, the dark brown curls completely the opposite to Barb's straightened, jet black locks.

"May I be excused?" Nica asked as she started to slowly wheel herself backwards.

"Yes of course." Their mother replied, noticing Nica had more or less cleaned her plate.

"Me too?" Barb asked as she started to stand.

"What the hell," Sarah threw her hands in the air. "Let's all be excused. Come on, let's go see if there's a movie on." She stood from the table as she followed the kids into the living room, Barb racing past Nica, catching her head slightly with her shoulder.

"Hey!" Nica shouted after her, lifting her hand and rubbing the side of her head. She turned to their mother, following closely. "She only did that so she got the best seat on the couch!" Barb's voice emanated from the living room.

"It's not like you need it!" She shouted.

"Barb!" Sarah shouted, angrily. "Let's have less of the attitude young lady. Be nicer to your sister!"

Nica wheeled herself up to the side of the couch as her mother approached the television set, flicking the switch, turning it on before taking a seat next to Barb on the. As the television crackled into life, the evening news blared out from the screen, the light from the television casting the three girls shadows across the wall behind them, the only light in the room. Sarah fiddled between the cushions looking for the remote to change channels but was having no luck. The voice of the news anchor carried across the room as he read the top story.

"Good evening and welcome to W.E.B.H news on Channel 8." He started. "Our top story tonight. The bodies of a newly married couple were discovered early this morning at the 'Honeymoon Sweets' motel, just a short walk from Niagara Falls. Discovered by a maid early this morning, the couple look to be the latest victims of the Jesse & Jade case, as the whole scenario becomes even more dramatic, the finger prints of notorious serial killer Charles Lee Ray appearing at the scene."

Their mother looked up suddenly, disbelief in her eyes, terror etched across her face. The remote control forgotten about as she immediately stood and raced to the television set, the news anchor continuing, only slightly audible over the noise Sarah made as she raced across the room.

"...been confirmed that Ray's grave at Forest Hills Cemetery, New Jersey 'will' be exhumed amid increasing speculation..." The television died suddenly as their mother spun on the spot.

"Okay girls." She clapped her hands together, trying to remain calm. "Up to bed, come on."

They both sat, looking at her, confused. Something had upset her.

"COME ON!" She yelled, making them jump in their skins.

"Come on lady!" The cab driver spun in his seat, his thick Brooklyn accent waking her from her dreams. She blinked her eyes, struggling to remember where she was, then it suddenly hit home as her brain started to wake up.

"Sorry," She apologised as she sat forward, stretching her arms and yawning. "Must've fallen asleep. Think that flight took it out of me."

"Yeah, no worries." The driver waved his hand as he killed the engine and opened his door, standing and making his away to the rear of the cab. Nica gathered her purse and cell phone, making sure not to leave anything else behind before opening the rear passenger door of the cab. Sure enough, there was her wheelchair, carefully placed by the cab driver, his old weathered face lighting up as she managed to shuffle herself from the back of his cab and into her seat. She lifted her ankles into the supports as the driver fetched her suitcase from the trunk, the weight surprising him a little.

"Jesus!" He blurted out, his face red as he dropped the case beside her. "What you got in here?" He asked.

"Just the bare necessities really." Nica answered with a little laughter.

"Well here we are Miss." He stood, straightening his back, placing his hands on the bottom of his spine. "This the right place?"

Nica took a look at the neon sign, blinking in the darkness of the still, New York night. 'Alder Court Motel' the sign read.

"This is it," Nica replied, pulling a wad of notes from her purse. "There's an extra $10 if you wait a few minutes and bring the case to room?" She half asked, half ordered with a grin. The old man waved his hand as he leaned back against the cab.

"Yeah, sure thing." He sounded exhausted. "You're my last job tonight, so why not. I ain't going nowhere."

Nica turned and headed into reception, taking a few minutes to sign in and sort out the payment for the room. Before long she appeared outside again and the cab driver followed her to her room.

"Guessing it's at least gonna be a ground floor room yeah?" He asked.

"Indeed it is." Nica turned and smiled as she appreciated the joke. Not a lot of people felt comfortable making the odd joke about her condition, but when she met somebody that did, she enjoyed it. It was nice to see not everything about being a paraplegic was all doom and gloom.

"How much they charge for a room like this?" He asked as she opened the door, the clean and surprisingly spacious interior looking more than welcoming.

"Not much. $39 I think." She answered.

"Per night?" He asked again. She nodded. "So how much is that then?" He enquired.

"$39." Nica replied. The cab driver thought for a second as he dropped the suitcase on the bed.

"You're here for one night?" He seemed confused. Nica nodded again. "Then why such a heavy case?"

"I'm flying on to Chicago tomorrow." She responded. "People to see, things to do. That reminds me, would you be able to pick me up tomorrow?"

The cab driver nodded at her as she handed over the payment for the fare.

"Sure. Where is it you're headed? Just the airport?" He counted the money before slipping it into his breast pocket.

"Yeah, I just need to stop off somewhere on the way for half an hour. Is that okay?" She asked.

"So long as the meter's running, I'm yours." He smiled. "What time should I pick you up?"

Nica thought for a few seconds.

"I don't know. I have to call to Forest Hills Cemetery, then be back to JFK Airport for about 5pm. What time would you recommend?"

Now it was the driver's turn to think. After a few seconds he came back to her with a time and finally left, arranging to pick Nica up about noon.

'Best get ready for tomorrow then.' Nica thought to herself as she opened her suitcase and unpacked some nightwear.

'Probably going to be another long day.'

As night began to fall, Charles sat in his cell, weeping uncontrollably as the pain screamed across his body, the straight jacket still gracing his chest and back. He rocked back and forth as his head began to hurt, blood starting to drip from his eyes as his mouth began to ache, his jaw throbbing. The dim lights of his cell flickered on as always at this time of night, and burned his eyes, more so then ever. He wished he knew what was happening to him, why he was feeling like this. It was supposed to be a better life for him in this body, the beginning of a brand new Chucky. He'd had youth, looks, strength on his side. But now, everything had carefully been stripped from him as time passed, leaving him sapped of strength, his mind turning to mush as the madness engulfed him night after night, lack of sleep as the nightmares constantly wrapped themselves around the fractured moments of sleep he had managed to find here and there. As he sat rocking backwards and forwards, he spat another tooth out, the blood once again flowing in a steady stream, when suddenly there was a knock at the door. He looked up, wondering if this wasn't yet another trick his mind had been playing on him. But sure enough, the lock rotated in its housing and the door opened slightly. One of the guards leaning in, poking his head around the door, noticing him sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Hey." He hissed at Charles. "I got something for ya." Charles looked up at the guard. Sure enough the guard produced his gift from Tiffany. Holding it at arms length and dropping it to the floor.

"It's about fucking time!" Charles responded groggily.

"I was asked to bring this down here by your friend. The blonde. If anybody finds that thing, you didn't get it from me!" Wide eyed, the guard shot him a serious look.

"You were never here!" Charles again replied. "Don't worry. Did she pay you to do this?"

"Not yet," The guard hung the motel room key out in his other hand, the key dangling from the key ring, catching the light of the cell and slightly blinding Charles. "I'm going now to get my payment." The guard laughed.

"You are?" Charles asked.

"Hell yeah. An ass like that doesn't come along every day. I'm gonna go to work on that bitch!" The guard laughed. He stopped laughing and gave Charles a sympathetic look. "Want me to give her something for you?" He laughed again. As he opened his eyes he stopped laughing, the expression on the face of the man he knew as David Jacobs had turned to stone. Then suddenly, as the silence hung for a split second, Charles began to laugh, deeper, louder, the echoes of laughter tinged with madness as he roared with laughter before allowing it to die into a chuckle. The guard felt a little freaked out at this and decided to slam the cell door shut as quickly as he could, making his move and getting out of the holding cells before anybody else realised he was there. As he reached the car park, he tossed the key to the motel room into the air before catching it, reaching his car and whistling along. All was good with life. For now anyway.

Back in the cell, Charles looked at the doll laying there on the floor, unmoving. Then with what remaining strength he did have, Charles stood, uneasily at first, but eventually gaining his balance and taking a couple of steps towards the doll. He wasn't fond of the fact she'd put fucking stitches on the thing, why the fuck did she do that? Didn't exactly make it easier for him to blend in did it? Stupid bitch. But still, he supposed it was better than what he had now. The body he was in, surely dying an incredibly slow death, pain, madness and body parts to prove it. All at once, he remembered something. The jacket. He couldn't move his arms. What the fuck was he supposed to do? Feeling defeated he took two unsteady steps back and collapsed to a sitting position on his bed again. Looking at the doll, so near, yet so far as his mind raced trying to think of a way. The guards would never let him take the jacket off, no matter what he tried, the events of this morning had seen to that. So what else could he do? If he left it any longer then surely this body would be no use, maybe dead within the next twenty four hours. Frustration raced to the surface as Charles examined the predicament he found himself confronted with, rising one last time to his feet, running now on pure rage. As he steadied himself he faced the wall at the far end of the cell and had an idea. It would hurt, but only for a few minutes. Digging deep he took a couple of small steps as he gathered a bit of momentum, before turning his steps into a run, the fear mixing with the anger and propelling him along, gaining speed as he went before connecting with the wall with a sickening crack, his shoulder flaring in agony. He stood again and raced back across the cell, once again smashing into the wall, the same shoulder taking the brunt of the force and cracking, snapping. Then as Charles stood, he closed his eyes and thought of what was at stake as he swung his now broken shoulder backwards then forwards into the wall. It was coming, it was happening, maybe one more time. He swung back even further this time, suddenly swinging the shoulder into the solid stone of the cell wall, the arm yanked from the shoulder as the entire unit dislocated allowing him slight room, movement now possible. He screamed as the pain seared through his arm, moving the arm as best he could finally managing to slip the shoulder of the jacket over his now battered and blood stained arm. As the jacket became loose, he was able to free his arm and reach round, thrusting his shoulder forward again and half snapping it back into position. Reaching round the back, he undid the restraints and eventually slipped the jacket off, falling to his knees as he cried in pain. The doll lay less than six feet from him, smile plastered across its crude, rubber face. Looking to the door, hoping the guards hadn't heard his cries, he crawled over the filthy floor of his cell, reaching the doll quickly. He took a second to compose himself, his mind racing in its overwhelmed state, lifting his shattered left arm and placing his hand on the dolls. As he pressed his thumb into the dolls forehead he begin to slowly speak.

"Ade due damballa. Give me the power I beg of you." He began as he suddenly felt a draught fly through the room.

"Secoise entienne mais pois de morte." A clap of thunder roared overhead, guards up and down the corridor noticing the lights beginning to flicker as one.

"Morteisma lieu de vocuier de mieu vochette." He started to get louder, a feeling of euphoria racing through him.

"Endonline pour de boisette damballa!" The room flashed as a bolt of lightning graced the skies, thunder getting louder all the time.

"Secoise entienne mais pois de morte." The guards looked at one another as they heard the screaming coming from Charles's cell, beginning to move towards the door, light flashing underneath.

"Endelieu pour de boisette damballa!" He screamed, his lungs almost bursting as he felt it. Life leaping, sucked into the never, blackness, while all along bright and burning.

"Endelieu pour de boisette damballa!" He carried on. Guards outside, hammering on the door of his cell.

"Jacobs. Keep it down!" One of them yelled.

"Endelieu pour de boisette damballa!" Laughing as he neared the end, his body beginning to feel like a thing of the past, the new one feeling like a fresh, blank canvas.

"I mean it Jacobs. Don't make me come in there you fucking freak!" The guard began to become irritated as the lightning flashed, the thunder bellowed above.

"Endelieu pour de boisette damballa!" He finally finished, all at once becoming light headed, his vision deteriorating significantly, his hearing disappearing immediately as the tremendous feeling of pure energy burst over him and carried him along, adrenaline pumping as he finally felt the familiar feeling of life as he had known for the last quarter of a century, reborn again.

Outside the door to his cell the guards noticed it had suddenly gone quiet. The lights behind them, up and down the corridor, had violently erupted, showering people in glass as they were plunged into darkness. Pulling out a torch, one of the guards fumbled for their keys, cries from the other cells as the other patients begged to know what was going on. Eventually the guard found the key for Charles's cell and quickly unlocked the heavy steel lock, swinging the door open to reveal the mutilated, twisted corpse of David Jacobs. Three of the guards raced into the room and took a look around, struggling to believe the conditions their patient had been living in. Finger nails, teeth, bits of scalp all lined the pillow at the top end of the bed. The sheets were covered in shit, the floor too in some places. One of the guards knelt beside the body and placed a finger under the chin, shaking his head as he looked up to his colleagues. No pulse.

"Jesus." One of them said as he shone his torch around the room, the beam of light jerking back to the filthy bed. "Poor guy."

"Yeah," The one on his knees agreed. "At least he didn't die alone." He grabbed the doll around its waist and held it up, giving it a quick once over.

"Fuck. I used to have one of those things." The third guard quietly spoke. "Scared the fuck out of me when they'd been in the news. Never been able to look at them since."

Suddenly the guard on his knees stood up, still holding the doll.

"Well," He spoke. "Suppose we better get this cleaned up and call the undertaker." As a joke he suddenly threw the doll to the third guard who instinctively caught it, dropping his torch in the process.

"Jesus Wayne!" He screamed as he caught the doll. "Didn't you hear what I said? I hate these things!"

"Oh stop being such a pussy and get rid of it Jarvis!" Wayne replied. "Gary can help me clear this sorry sack of shit up while you throw that thing out."

Jarvis looked to his two colleagues and shook his head as he handled the doll.

"Where you expect me to get rid of this?" He asked, confused.

The two men bent over, one either end of David's body, stopping to fix their gaze on Jarvis.

"I dunno," Gary said sarcastically. "How about the fucking garbage chute, dumbass?" They both laughed as Jarvis turned and left the room, taking the doll with him. As he reached the end of the corridor he entered the maintenance room and closed the door, crossing the room and opening the garbage chute which led to the back of the asylum, the dumpsters waiting underneath. Before Chucky could come round fully he was whizzing down the chute and into the darkness of the night and to the freedom of Longcrofts trash pile. Hitting the bottom with a thud, he quickly gathered his thoughts and lifted his hands to his face.

He was back.

The moon hung in the air, casting the most beautiful light over the surrounding forest as branches of trees stood out, extended like bony skeletal fingers. Racoons ran across the dirt track as the headlights of an oncoming vehicle startled them, making them bolt in different directions, the car hurtling towards them at speed. She didn't like being late, especially not for a special occasion such as this, and she was kicking herself for it. But she liked to take her time, and if something was worth doing, then it was worth doing right. Longcroft Asylum guard Luke Thomson had recently found this out. Entering her motel room, bottle of champagne at the ready, surprised at first as the emptiness of the room sunk in. Not seeing Tiffany hiding behind the door, he had been even more surprised as she stood forward and grabbed his head from behind, yanking it back as she used her other hand to run a flick knife across his throat, the blood cascading immediately down his uniform as he turned, shocked to look at her as he fell to his knees, dropping the champagne and trying in vain to stop the bleeding. Tiffany had then shut the motel room door and simply sat on the bed, watching him, enjoying the sight of the life ending before her very eyes. She had loved every minute, and finally felt like her old self. As she yanked the steering wheel of the Audi to the left and into the lay by, she applied the brake, the car skidding on the dirt as it eventually came to a standstill. No sign of him. She left the headlights burning as she opened the car door and stood, pulling a cigarette from her purse and lighting it using the lighter from the car. As she took a deep breath of the nicotine infused smoke, she walked around the car and looked down the embankment and to where the stream was gently flowing past. After about ten minutes and three more cigarettes, she eventually heard a noise as she looked down and saw the small, red headed body making its way out of the water and towards her. She smiled, a job well done, everything coming together, just as she suspected it would.

"It's about time." She laughed as she jumped up and down. He made his way up the grass embankment, taking his time to get over a fallen tree before reaching her and finally taking in her beauty all at once. Her long legs, the heaving chest, the beautiful face of a partner in more than crime.

"I still feel out of it." He said as he took a deep breath. "That body. There was something wrong with it. I've never felt like that before."

"So," She started. "Are we getting straight down to business?" He shook his head.

"No." He shook his head, a look of anger taking over him. "I can't. I need time to recover. At least a couple of days. But then, I'll know what to do."

She looked at him as she leant over and picked him up. Standing upright she looked at him in the glow of the moon and couldn't have thought of a more romantic setting.

"Do we know what to do next?" She asked. "Do you know what happened to that body? He was young, attractive. Maybe too attractive. Do you know what went wrong?" He again shook his head.

"No. But I'm going to find out."

With that, they both climbed into the car, Tiffany starting the engine and giving it some gas as she took off and left nothing but a cloud of dust and some very bewildered animals.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

As she stared into the mirror of her motel bathroom, Nica finished blow drying her hair and set the hairdryer down besides the sink, taking special care to turn it off at the switch. As she finished leaning over and returned to her normal seated position her bathrobe slipped, exposing the scarring from her life saving operation at the hands of Dr Hastelow. She ran her finger across the top of her bare breast and cringed as she felt the raised skin, the ugly texture of her stitches. She gradually pulled herself together and tried to shake off the feeling of impending doom, failure. Whatever it was that had kept her awake half the night. Leaving the bathroom, she took in the smell of freshly cooked bacon, eggs, French toast and coffee. She hadn't been too hungry when she'd finally woken, around 8am, but something had told her to eat. Probably common sense, she figured that the last thing she was going to get chance to do today was eat. Nearing the window and pulling back the curtains, she stared out into the parking lot of Alder Court Motel, the sun washing in from the east as the traffic slowly built into a steady stream of semis, station wagons, yellow cabs and limousines. Today looked like a good day, not a cloud in the sky. As she looked at the clock in her room, Nica spun and grabbed the fork from her breakfast tray, a mouthful of bacon and French toast washed down with a sip of the piping hot coffee. She still had time before her ride to Forest Hills so decided to once again go through the notes she had pieced together from her internet research. Various articles, photographs, web forums discussing the legend that was Chucky, but nothing stuck out. Nothing leapt forward, screaming at her to pay any closer attention. She figured that unless she could find some clue, some branch from which to chase up new leads, there was no point in carrying on to Chicago that afternoon. She was about to give up, her brain unable to concentrate anymore on the same pages. Until, that was, she noticed a picture. There he was, Charles Lee Ray, or what was left of him anyway. Dead, lifeless, immediately after being gunned down by Detective Mike Norris. Something hit home, at the back of her mind sparks were igniting, her memory kicking into action at last. Flipping back through her notes Nica landed on another picture, this one was of a six year old Andy Barclay, smiling, cuddling his beloved Good Guy doll. Dated December 29th 1988, the headline read:

'**IS THIS DOLL CURSED?  
>Boy says Chucky did it!'<strong>

Nica gave the article another look over, trying to remember what it was that she had noticed. Something, there was something there, she was sure of it. Then she saw it. Both articles, the stories, both from the same paper, even better they were credited to the same reporter, Steven Coleman. Picking up her cell phone, Nica knew it was a long shot, but decided it was better to have a stab in the dark and come out with nothing. What was the worst that could happen? She phones the paper, they tell her he doesn't work there any more, big deal. After Googling the name of the paper, she finally found a phone number for the news desk and pressed the number with her thumb, the phone asking her one final time if she was sure she wanted to make the call. Agreeing to make the call she sat back and dropped her notes on her lap, stretching her free arm as she yawned again, before bringing her hand down and ruffling her hair. Suddenly the ringing was broken, the sound of an office environment immediately blaring down the line. Phones ringing, people shouting, hectic.

"Chicago Chronicle, news desk." The female voice answered with a bright, cheerful disposition.

"Hello?" Nica replied. "This is probably a long shot. I'm looking through some old articles, and I'm trying to reach a reporter. Would you be able to tell me if he still works there?" Nica politely enquired.

"Let me see." The voice came back. "How long back are you talking?"

"Erm..." Nica struggled for a moment, her mind wiped out in a millisecond. "About twenty six years?" She laughed slightly.

The woman down the other end of the phone gave a whistle, as if to say 'I seriously doubt it', before coming back with something a little more friendly.

"I wouldn't think so, but give me the name and let me ask around. What's the name you're chasing?" She asked Nica.

"Steven Coleman?" Nica answered calmly. "I know it's a big ask, but the worst you can say is no right?"

"Well honey," The voice replied. "I can tell you, without a doubt, there ain't a Coleman working here now."

"Oh," Nica felt her heart drop a little. "I see."

After a few seconds of silence, the woman spoke again, perhaps sensing Nica's disappointment, maybe just in a good mood and feeling like going out of her way.

"Tell you what. You got a name and number for me to call you back?" She asked.

"Yes, why?" Nica responded.

"I'm trying to help you out here honey. Give me your name and number and I'll ask around the office. Maybe some of the older staff remember the guy." She offered.

"Really? I would really appreciate that, thank you so much." Nica beamed as she reeled off her name and cell number. Not the result she was hoping for, but she wasn't finished yet. Not by a long shot.

"I can't promise nothing." The woman came back. "But I'll try my best. Give me an hour or so."

"That's amazing, thank you so much." Nica gushed as she hung up the call.

With nothing else to do, she decided to climb onto the bed and spend a little time watching TV. This was the only thing she was going to hate about being on the road, the luxuries that awaited the common person at home were never to be found in motels. Everything felt sterile, yet at the same time unclean and unfamiliar. As she lay on the bed she grabbed the remote and began flicking through the channels. Nothing exciting though, boring Nica to tears within minutes as she switched it back off and replaced the remote on the bed side table. She tried another mouthful of breakfast but found it hard to swallow, her body rejecting the food as the nerves in her stomach intensified severely. She must have sat for twenty minutes, staring vacantly as she went back over her notes, trying to notice if anything else seemed odd, out of place. 'There must be something in there' she thought as she turned the pages, the same articles, the same photographs, staring back, her mind unable to take anything else in. She was suddenly roused from her catatonic state as her phone started to ring and vibrate. Reaching forward and grabbing the phone from the bottom of the bed she looked at the Chicago number and felt a surge of anticipation as she answered the call.

"Hello?" She asked as she answered the phone.

"That Nica?" The familiar voice replied.

"Yes." She closed her eyes as she waited for the news. Would it be good, would it be bad?

"Bad news honey." The woman shot her down with her sentence. "That Coleman guy ain't worked here for over fifteen years."

"Shit!" Nica silently scolded herself for getting worked up.

"There's 'some' news though." The voice replied, sensing Nica's disappointment.

"There is?" Nica asked.

"Yup. One of the old guys here knows him. Won't give me the number, but says he works for a paper called the Chicago Times. You heard of that?"

"No. I can't say as I have." Nica replied, feeling her optimism, growing once more.

"Yeah, they think they're a cut above the likes of us." The woman angrily snapped. "By all means give them a call. They'll probably put you through. Tell them Pat told you to call."

"I will do. Thanks you so much for the help."

"No worries honey." The voice quickly disappeared amidst a backdrop of office noise, pandemonium in the background of the office.

Deciding to use her laptop, Nica fired it up and waited, downing the rest of her coffee, as it picked up the motels WiFi signal and logged onto Google. Running a search for the Chicago Times, she was immediately greeted by the homepage, the 'contact us' button only just visible in the bottom left corner of the screen. After clicking, Nica flicked through the numbers, carefully finding the one for the news desk. She carefully dialled the number and waited as the connection was made, the ringing of the phone broken almost at once as the more refined voice of a gentleman answered at the other end.

"Chicago Times?" He crowed. "How may I help?"

"Hi," Nica began. "I'm trying to reach a journalist you have. Goes by the name of Steven Coleman?"

"Ah yes," The voice recognising the name. "Mr Coleman? Do you have an appointment?"

"No," Nica answered, pulling a face as she realised she may have just let her one chance slip through her fingers. "Listen, I just want two minutes of his time. Please, put me through, if he doesn't want to talk to me then he can hang up himself, I'll never bother him again."

"I'm afraid Mr Coleman operates a rather tight ship with calls and appointments." The tone of the voice becoming a little too snobby for Nica.

"I'm just wanting to make an enquiry. Some work he did a long time ago. Tell him Pat told me to call." Fierceness creeping into Nica's voice. More of a demand than a request.

Silence. The worst noise Nica had come to know recently.

"Hold please." The voice replied.

Nica heard the familiar beep of the 'hold' tone as she waited for the call to connect, finally getting to speak to the name on the reports in front of her. The phone was picked up pretty quickly, the low, growling voice of Steven Coleman filling the ear piece.

"This is Steven Coleman." He barked. "Who is this?"

"Mr Coleman." Nica started. "Hi, you don't know me, my name is Nica Pirce, and I'm so sorry for bothering you, but I need to ask a couple of questions about a story you covered twenty six years ago."

"My god." He seemed taken aback. "Twenty six years is a damned long time. You know how many stories I've covered in that time?" He gave a laugh as he spoke.

"Charles Lee Ray!" The words left Nica cold as her icy tone travelled down the line, the laughter stopping immediately.

"Jesus." Coleman whispered. "Who did you say you were again?"

"Listen Mr. Coleman." She interrupted.

"Steven, please." He requested.

"Steven," Nica corrected herself. "I'm trying to piece together a whole heap of files here. I've been through everything. The internet, archives, paper clippings, Wikipedia..."

"You don't wanna pay any attention to Wikipedia." Steven immediately replied calmly.

"I know." Nica agreed. "It's just that nothing adds up. No two reports seem to be the same, there's no consistency, everybody's telling it from a different point of view."

"I getcha Nica." She could hear him taking another drag from his cigarette as he spoke. "Nobody knew what was happening around that time, the reports were thin on the ground. I know exactly what you mean."

"You do?" Nica was astonished.

"Sure I do. You're on about the doll right?" His voice turned to a whisper, a seriousness taking over his tone.

"Yes." Nica replied quietly.

"I remember that all too well." He carried on speaking quietly, as though he were afraid somebody would be eavesdropping.

"What happened? I need to know." Nica begged.

"Nobody took it seriously. I didn't to be honest. But I was young, that was one of my first big stories, helped get me where I am today." He carried on. "I knew nobody else would be running with the rantings of some insane mother and her troubled kid. That's what made me chase it. Made me take advantage of the fact nobody else would be competing with me on it."

"How do you mean?" Nica began to get confused.

"That story about Charles Lee Ray. Everybody ran that, my reports hardly raised an eyebrow. He was the god damned Lakeshore Strangler. You know the kinda curfews, roadblocks and random searches that were carried out trying to catch that guy?" Steven explained. "Naturally when Norris shot him dead, the whole thing blew up, his face was everywhere. But then a week or so later, that kid, his mom. Nobody cared, nobody covered it. But to me it stood out. Something that could help me up the ladder."

"I see," Nica realised. "Is that why your articles are the most popular from after the death of Charles Lee Ray?"

"I guess so. I didn't even know they were still out there." He answered honestly. "But I guess with all this archive stuff and the worldwide web, you can find just about anything now."

"One question. You seemed to have a lot of information. Do you mind me asking where you found all this out?" Nica asked, hoping not to push too far and offend.

"I'm gonna be honest... What did you say your name was? Nica?" He struggled.

"Yes, Nica." She replied immediately.

"I'm gonna be honest with you Nica. When you're just starting out in this game, you need all the help you can get. So... You know... Occasionally, you might have to grease a few palms. Know what I mean?"

"You mean bribes?" She asked.

"Basically yeah." He sighed as he admitted it. "But that was a long time ago."

"Who did you bribe?" She asked, feeling herself nearing yet another milestone in the ensuing research.

"It was just a cop that was pretty involved. I slipped him a few dollars, he managed to pull me Ray's file. There wasn't anything about no doll in that though. What he told me about that was basically face to face, after everything went to shit with the woman and her kid."

"This file. Do you still have it?" Nica cut in, panic in her voice.

"Hell no. I got rid of that as soon as the story went to print. To be honest the whole thing scared the shit outta me." Steven Coleman replied.

"I need a copy. Not just the file either, I need to know everything he knew from back then. This guy, this cop. Is he still on the force?" Nica asked, urgency streaking through her words.

"Last I knew he was. See his name down at the courts from time to time." Steven answered. "I can't tell you his name though Nica. As far as I'm concerned, this is something I don't want to get too close to. I figure you'd be wise taking the same approach."

"Believe me Mr Coleman. I've had this entire thing up to here. I'm doing this with or without your help. Even if I have to visit every police precinct in Chicago and ask for the cop that accepted a bribe from you twenty six years ago. Do you understand?" Venom now injected, her words flowing down the lines and arriving in Steven's ears with a knockout blow.

"Listen, let's not be too rash." He pleaded. "I didn't say I wouldn't help you. But I want one thing."

"What's that?" She asked.

"Leave me out of this. The whole thing stunk back in 1988, and it still stinks today. That's one episode I don't wanna revisit any time soon."

"Fair enough. How exactly do you plan on helping me out?" She calmly replied.

"Leave me your number. I'll get in touch with the guy and ask him to give you a call. Whether he does or not, is up to him. You know that, it's nothing to do with me." Steven spoke in a relaxed manner.

"Well let's hope for your sake that he does." Nica responded. "You want my number then?"

"Well that'd be a start," He nervously laughed. "Be warned though. If he does anything for you, it'll be at a price, and it won't be cheap."

"Don't worry Mr Coleman." Nica looked out of the window as the traffic roared past. "Money won't be a problem."

With that, Nica left her number before hanging up the phone and proceeding to pack her things ready for the trip to Forest Hills Cemetery.

Hopefully she'd now have some idea where to start looking when she reached Chicago

Another avenue to explore.

The cab turned off highway 46 and down the dirt track leading up to Forest Hills cemetery, gently, slowly making its way, the dirt parting gradually under the wheels as they rolled. Nica was surprised at just how beautiful it was. The luscious green forest surrounding the grave yard bestowed a mellow and tender feeling to visitors as they swung in to the run down car park, wildlife everywhere the eyes could see. Squirrels climbed trees, scampering along branches with nuts, no doubt intended for hibernation as the winter rapidly approached. In the distance of the forest, Nica made out a deer, a young buck, grazing in the clearing beyond the barrier of trees lining the car park, birds flying from one tree to the next, swooping, whistling and hopping along the ground, desperately searching for food. Nica turned, taking in the view from the opposite window in the back of the yellow cab, the car park practically empty, just a solitary station wagon parked up beside the log cabin, presumably the caretaker's. The cab crept to a halt, the brakes whining a touch, a ratchet-like noise coming from the underneath as the driver applied the handbrake. As Nica looked over the white picket fence and into the graveyard, she felt a shudder wash over her as she noticed the rows and rows of headstones. She'd never liked these places, not since she was a kid. She'd been taken to see her father's grave for the first time, ever since finding out from Barb that he had indeed passed away, and had become overwhelmed with emotion. Hyperventilating and panicking as she took in the mass of headstones, the fact hundreds of corpses lay beneath her, she had almost blacked out, her mother having to calm her. Ever since that day she had an uneasy relationship with them, seldom visiting, and that was the way she intended for it to remain. She was shaken out of her day dreaming stupor as the cab driver yanked open her door, once again stepping aside to reveal her wheelchair. The cold steel prison to which she had been sentenced since birth, in fact no... Before that, sat before her, waiting to make her complete. She shuffled over the back seat and grabbed the wheelchair, lifting herself from the back of the cab and into the soft leather seat she had become so accustomed to. The cab driver slammed the door behind her and struck a match, lighting the already half smoked cigarette gripped between his lips. Nica turned to look at him. Old, short and grey haired he'd obviously had a hard life, smoking just one of few enjoyments available to him as he worked whichever hours he could to make an honest living. He noticed Nica looking and removed the cigarette from his lips.

"What's the plan then?" He asked, removing the cigarette butt and flashing Nica a nicotine stained smile.

"Are you okay to wait?" Nica asked.

"As long as the meter's running, I'll be here all day." He answered, shuffling his scruffy feet, kicking up a cloud of dust as he leant back against the cab.

"That's fine with me. I don't know how long I'll be." She replied. "I don't even know what I'm looking for if I'm being honest."

"Friend of yours in there?" The cab driver enquired diligently.

"No." Nica smiled, shaking her head and closing her eyes as the sun hit her face. "More a ghost that needs exorcising really."

"I hear ya." The driver laughed. "Ya know a lot of people say 'don't speak ill of the dead', all that stuff. But ya know what I say?"

"What?" Nica asked, her curiosity taking over slightly.

"Fuck that. If you'll pardon the language Miss." He held his hands up. "Way I see it, we all start off a blank canvas. If somebody chooses to be an ass, then that's their call. If they were an ass when they were alive, then they'll still be an ass long after they're dead. Say it as you see it."

Nica laughed.

"Well, that's..." She paused. "... Some way to think. I'll bear that in mind."

"Trust me. That's the only way to think." He carried on. "I had this neighbour a few years back. Asked to borrow my lawnmower. A few months later I say to the wife, 'Hey. That jerk still has my lawnmower.' So she tells me to go ask for it back. Which I did. Know what the jerk says?"

Nica shook her head, her smile growing as the tale spun on.

"He says, 'That's my lawnmower.' Now I know this guy's lying his ass off. So I call him on it. Call him a thieving piece of shit."

"Wow." Nica said, struggling to grasp the significance to her situation.

"Two weeks later, the guy drops dead. Has a connery, or something like that." The cab driver went on.

"Oh my god." Nica was shocked. "You mean he had a coronary?"

"Yeah, one of those!" The driver lifted a long vein covered arm, pointing in agreement at Nica. "You know the moral of the story?"

"Not really..." Nica replied, now well and truly confused.

"He was a lying piece of shit when he was alive. Just because he died didn't make him a damned saint. So he's now a 'dead' lying piece of shit!" He paused a second, thinking. "Come to think of it, his wife still has my lawnmower!"

Nica had to laugh. Not so much at what the driver had said, but more the way he said it. Argue as much as she could, Nica did have to concede that there was indeed some logic to the cab drivers thinking.

"I'm going to..." She pointed over her shoulder to the entrance to the graveyard.

"No problems. I'll be waiting right here." He replied.

Turning, Nica made her way over the uneven dirt and to the paved path leading into the cemetery, the sign above the arched entrance displaying a 'Welcome To Forest Hills Cemetery' to all visitors. She wondered where to start looking as she entered, the vast area suddenly seeming much larger than she had originally envisioned. Luckily there was a plan beside the gate, displaying the various rows, columns and sections of the graveyard. As she carefully ran her finger along the list of occupants, she stopped as she found the line in question.

**Ray, Charles L – Row 16, Line 3**

Looking up and taking a deep breath Nica began to move, her chest feeling tight as she rolled, trying not to exert too much force. It took her a while before she noticed the numbers delicately placed along each of the rows of graves. She casually looked around, gently wheeling herself forward, taking in the sight of the hundreds of graves and headstones. Many were topped with fresh flowers, pictures of the deceased person as they would have looked in their prime, some had candles, long burnt out, the wick running to the end, fading and leaving nothing but a smouldering memory of a once bright flame. Nica reckoned that was a perfect analogy for life really. Starting off with sudden, instant, ignition and burning bright. Sometimes brighter than others but more often than not, constantly in peril, danger of being extinguished prematurely. Only a few managing to hold the flame until the very end and fading in a natural death. Before she knew it, Nica had reached row 16 and looked along to the third grave. The huge slab of cement, cracked and protruding from the earth like a vile tribute to one of hells rejects, all the while bearing the name of none other than that sick son of a bitch Charles Lee Ray. Nica didn't know what to think exactly as she came to a stop at the foot of the grave, the grass under her wheelchair making it incredibly hard to manoeuvre. She crossed her hands across her chest and started rubbing her forearms, a chill spreading over her, despite the unusually warm weather. There was nothing here. Just a head stone with the name and date of death. November 9th 1988, the day before Nica's birthday, which was exactly as he had told her months ago as she lay prone on the floor of her vast hallway back home. Chucky standing over her, knife in hand, relaying the tale of his rejection by Nica's mother, teasing her as he took full responsibility for her condition, the paralysis, everything. He had sickened Nica to her very core as he spat his vile version of events, all the while Nica waiting for a chance to get away, the lights flickering into action at the vital moment, Chucky slipping on her blood as he gave chase. Nica was so lost in her thoughts that she jumped a mile as the caretaker came to a stop alongside her, his wheelbarrow hitting the dirt with a dull thud. She jumped a mile and instantly reached for her chest as she felt her heart begin to race, the stitching above her left breast beginning to feel tighter and tighter, shock rippling through her.

"Woah," The old man turned, putting his up his hands in a gesture of friendship. "You alright there?" He gasped.

Nica nodded, taking a moment to compose herself, her chest banging, as though somebody was trapped inside, attempting to break through with a hammer. As she caught her breath, she gave the caretaker a once over. Early to mid sixties, scruffily dressed in his torn jeans, checked shirt and Yankees baseball hat, he had a weathered face, half hidden behind a wealth of grey stubble, his sun glasses perched on the end of his crooked nose. Nica knew a victim of a broken nose when she saw one, and this guy definitely fit the bill. He didn't look the kind to go looking for fights though, small and wiry, probably no more than 140lbs wet through. His look was one of shock as he had seen Nica's reaction to his sudden presence. As the beating and throbbing pain began to subside, Nica grimaced, it had seriously felt like she was being stabbed again.

"I'm okay." She finally whispered as she pulled her hands from her chest. "You just caught me by surprise that's all."

"Well if it makes you feel any better you almost gave me a heart attack too with that reaction." He laughed as he removed his baseball hat, wiping his brow as he ran the sleeve of his checked shirt across it, sweat trickling down his forehead from his ruffled, spiky grey hair. He replaced the hat and carried on chewing his gum.

"Yeah, I just had no idea anybody was there." Nica explained.

"I know what you mean." He replied with a smile, turning to look at the head stone. "This a friend of yours? Family member?" He asked.

"No." Nica quietly answered. "Just paying a visit. Trying to get my head around things really."

"I see." The old man sighed as he lifted his hand to Nica. "Ted Langford, Forest Hills caretaker. Ain't a grave in this place I don't know."

"Really?" Nica asked with a smile.

"Yep. All except one really." He continued as he chewed his gum and placed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "That being this one."

"How do you mean?" Nica asked. "Besides knowing the name and a date of death, what is there to really know?"

"You'd be surprised." Ted swung the top half of his body to look at Nica again. "Lots of visitors here, usually happy to sit and talk with an old fool like me. Never get anybody to this one though."

"I can't imagine why." Nica turned to look at the head stone again, a chill once again falling over her shoulders.

"Used to get the odd gang of kids come up here sometimes." He carried on talking. "They'd fetch a few beers, smoke a cigarette, some used to fetch these ugly little dolls, lay 'em across the grave. Always the same time of the year too, around about the time the guy died."

"Are you shitting me?" Nica spat before she could think again.

"No ma'am. They don't do it so much nowadays. Never did understand what the hell it was all about. I know one thing though. Those kids used to leave a damned mess. Beer cans, cigarette butts."

"I can imagine that being a pain. Especially when you keep the place so lovely. It really is beautiful up here." Nica complimented Ted.

"Well that's nice of you to say. I'm sorry I didn't catch your name..." Ted asked.

"Nica." She replied.

"Nica?" He seemed taken aback. "Never heard that one before. That really is a peach of a name though Nica." He smiled.

"So," Nica started. "You say nobody ever comes up here?"

"Nope. You're the first I've seen in..." Ted leaned back, hands in pockets as he exhaled, his lips rippling as he struggled to think. "... Probably about fifteen years. Give or take a year or two."

"Really?" She looked confused, her eyes flitting from the grave, then back to Ted. "Somebody else used to come up here?"

"Yup, every year for about nine or ten years." He replied. "Pretty little thing, blonde hair, beautiful figure, had legs that went all the way..." He stopped, forgetting he was addressing a female. "Well, you get the picture. Always figured it was a girlfriend or something like that."

"What makes you say that?" Nica asked.

"Just the way she was at the burial. Then every year when she came up here to pay her respects. Never during the day either, always last thing on an evening, just before I locked up for the night. Snappy little thing too. Asked her if she was alright and she damn near bit my head off one time." Ted explained.

"But I thought you said kids came up here during the night?" Nica enquired. "If she wanted to come up here as late as possible, be alone, wouldn't she just have come up here after everybody had gone?"

"They did." Ted answered Nica. "But they came over the fences down the bottom. The way that girl dressed, she'd have been in no state to climb any damned fence, let me tell you that."

"Did she ever tell you her name?" Nica asked again, hoping this may lead to another branch for her to grasp as she landed in Chicago.

"Afraid not. Only name I ever got out of her was Chucky." Ted responded as he crossed his arms. "And that was only because she had it tattooed over her right tit, along with one of those damned tacky heart things."

"Chucky?" Nica's eyes wandered as she tried to figure out who this woman could be.

"Yeah. Always figured it was a nickname for this guy right here." Ted nodded in the direction of the grave.

"You said she stopped coming. Can you remember when?" Nica asked, pumping Ted for more answers.

"Oh I dunno." He closed his eyes and massaged his temples with his thumb and middle finger. "Maybe about 1998, 1999. Before the turn of the millennium. I know that much."

"And did you say she was at the burial?" Nica asked again. "How do you know that?"

"Well that's an easy one." He laughed as he answered the question. "I was the guy that buried him!"

Nica leaned back, surprise written all over her face.

"Don't be too surprised." Ted carried on. "I've been here thirty four years Nica. Figure the day I go they won't have to carry me far. Hell they could probably just roll me a few feet and drop me in one of the fresh graves down the far end." He laughed again.

"Was there anything unusual about the funeral?" She frantically begged. "Anything you can remember?"

"Come to think of it the flowers were pretty freaky." Ted looked up as he tried to dig in to his memory. "Kinda like two snakes, intertwined or something. Very peculiar. Almost like they were eating each other. I remember thinking that was one hell of a wreath."

"Anything else?" Nica continued to interrogate Ted, her flight for Chicago looming in the next few hours, her time scarce.

"Just the turn out really. Nobody there except the blonde girl. All she did was cry. Threw a single flower on the coffin after I'd lowered him in." He looked at the grave again. "A white one if I remember right."

"A white what? A flower?" Nica enquired as she pulled her cell phone from her purse, the time later than she had thought.

"Yeah." Ted noticed her looking at the time. "Figured it had some special kinda significance. Couldn't tell you what though."

"Nothing else except the flowers?" She asked again.

"Not for the funeral. It was probably about the time Blondie stopped showing up that things started to get weird." His eyes widened as he spoke.

"When was this again?" Nica had to ask, struggling to remember.

"Late nineties like I said." Ted answered. "Yeah, we got a call one day saying we'd to get ready for some federal guy coming down here. Police wanted to exhume the grave, never said what for though."

"Exhume?" Nica repeated to herself.

"Means to dig him up." Ted cheekily responded, leaning over and smiling.

"I know what it means Ted." Nica laughed. "I was just curious why. I'd read something about this on the internet but there wasn't much. In fact I'd forgotten about it to be honest."

"That's on the interweb, or whatever you kids call it?" Ted looked alarmed.

"Only a little." Nica replied with a smile. "What happened after that?"

"Well," Ted began. "We come down the day after, there's police, ambulances. The grave's wide open, coffin open, the damned skeleton of this guy staring up at us all. That was some weird shit."

"Why so weird?" Nica looked confused. "Aren't all exhumations pretty similar?"

"Not this one it wasn't." Ted continued. "There was a damned doll in there with the body, somebody had fired a few rounds into it. Ugly little thing it was. Ginger hair, stitches all over it. The guy that was digging the grave had been shot, lord only knows why."

"That is a mystery." Nica sighed.

"Then over there." Ted lifted his arm and pointed over to the other side of the graveyard. "That was where we found the other doll."

"Other doll?!" Nica was shocked. What did he mean?

"That's right. Over there, near the oak tree." He answered as he lowered his arm and returned his gaze to Nica.

"Had that been shot too?" She asked.

"Hell if I know. It'd been burnt pretty bad though." Ted finished.

"So what happened then?" Nica looked at the time again. She'd have to get moving soon.

"Last I knew, the cops took pictures, carted away the dolls, we filled the grave in and the rest was history. We never heard another word about it. In fact, that's the first time I've spoke about that in years." Ted replied.

Sensing their time had come to an end, Nica opened her purse and removed twenty dollars. She casually lifted her arm and extended her hand.

"Well Ted. It's been a pleasure, but I've got a flight to catch. Thank you so much for the chat."

"What the hell's that for?" He asked, noticing the money.

"Just get yourself a beer or something. It's for the information. You've been more than helpful." She replied.

"Hell Nica. If I took money from everybody I talked to, then there'd be no need for me to be here." He laughed waving the money away.

"Are you sure?" Nica asked.

"Hell yeah." He replied.

With that Nica said her farewells to Ted, fully unaware that from the far end of the graveyard, a figure lurked in the shadows of the forest, binoculars raised watching her every move. As he watched them shake hands he pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and dialled a number, the ringing of the line instantly blaring from the speaker. As Ted grabbed the handles of his wheelbarrow, Nica carefully wheeled herself back onto the path and towards the waiting cab. The driver opening the rear door and throwing his cigarette to the ground as she approached. The figure stood, waiting for the ringing to end, for somebody to finally answer his call, his broad shoulders and huge 6' 4" figure finding it hard to lurk without being spotted. His Caribbean, possibly Haitian, origin not only evident in his appearance, but also in his thick West Indian accent as the ringing finally stopped and a voice quietly spoke down the line.

"Speak." The voice said. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Tell the old man he was right." The shadowy figure exclaimed as he spoke into the phone. "She is here."

Nica had no idea she was being followed as she was dropped at the departure gate of JFK International airport, paying the cab driver and once more giving him a rather generous tip for the service he had offered throughout her very brief stay in New York. The Caribbean gentleman stood in departures, looking for Nica, finding it incredibly difficult with her short stature, but suddenly spotting her at the departure desk. His eyes quickly flicked up towards the display above the check in desk, searching her destination. He couldn't believe it as the sign flicked over from the time to reveal his next destination as he continued following Nica, just as he had done lately.

Chiacgo.

He was going home.

As Nica passed through security, she grabbed her personal belongings from the tray as it was gradually fed along the conveyor belt, taking her time to put her phone in her pocket and her purse on her lap before returning the tray to the end of the conveyor where a security guard sat, monitoring all manner of 'carry on' items as they passed slowly through the x-ray machine. She hated security control at the airport. Her chair made her a prime target for the metal detectors as she passed through. The majority of security officers took pity and simply waved her through. But there was always one that decided to be an ass. Luckily she hadn't encountered that guard tonight and was happy to finally be through to the departure lounge where she could relax before the few hours flight it would take to reach Chicago. As she stopped outside a Starbucks, she heard her phone ringing. Placing her hand in the pocket of her jeans, she also felt it vibrating, reminding her of an angry wasps nest Barb had once thrust into her lap when she was just a kid. The caller's number was withheld, which Nica figured could only mean one thing.

This was the call she had been waiting for.

"Hello?" She answered the call, lifting the phone to her ear, struggling to hear amidst the throngs of people racing left, right and centre through the terminal.

"Miss Pirce?" The rough voice asked, quiet, yet somehow very vocal.

"Yes," She replied, trying to block out the noise around her. "Who is this?"

"This is your friend from Chicago." The voice shot back. "I've been asked to call you by our mutual friend."

"Yes, that's right." She was thrilled to finally be getting somewhere. "Can you help me?"

The voice took on a hint of nastiness, turning suddenly stern.

"Listen." The rough voice barked down the line. "I don't know why you're sniffing around this thing. I seriously don't. There's no need. Just leave it!"

"No," Nica gasped. "I just want to know..." She was immediately interrupted.

"You don't want to know anything. From what I hear you already know more than you need to. Just leave it. You don't know what the fuck you're getting into with this thing. What you're letting yourself in for!" The voice seemed desperate to dissuade Nica.

"Believe me I do." She spat back, trying to get a word in. "Charles Lee Ray is the..." Cut off again. The voice getting angrier as it spoke.

"Charles Lee Ray is dead. He's a damned ghost." The voice hollered at her, startling her. "Leave it Miss Pirce. That's a warning!"

With that the line went dead. Whoever it was had decided before even making the call that they were in no mood to help. Now with no new lead, nothing to cling onto, Nica sat and lost all hope as she patiently sat and waited for her flight.

She had nothing.

Nothing except dead ends.

But that would change.

Back in the departure terminal the Caribbean stranger stood in line. His freshly purchased ticket to Chicago gripped in his fist as he patiently waited to pass through the departure desk and into security.

Next stop home.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The tyres of the Boeing 757 screeched with glee as they finally scuffed the tarmac of the runway, Chicago's O'Hare International Airport besieged by the strongest winds Illinois had offered up in decades. The plane did the usual bumping and creaking as the tyres met the ground as all passengers on board felt the familiar feeling of relief as they realised they were finally home, safe and sound. All but one that was. As Nica Pirce sat in the very front row, she took a long, miserable look through one of the cabins many windows, the gloom outside perfectly fitting her mood as night descended upon her latest destination, quietly creeping, spreading darkness as far as the eye could see. The rain lashed the windows as the clouds of the storm engulfed the city and added a mysterious, murky look to proceedings. As the plane gently taxied across the remaining tarmac and approached the terminal, Nica awaited the flight assistant that had landed the rather easy job of helping her from the plane. There wasn't much help she needed really, the only bit was actually getting off the plane, the rest was a piece of cake. Nevertheless, she spotted the scissor lift awaiting her arrival as the plane slowly and gradually came to a complete standstill, the floating walkway then attached to the hull as the rest of the passengers were allowed to disembark and head to passport control. Eventually, the opposite door of the hull was yanked open and Nica pushed onto the waiting scissor lift, the wind whipping at her hair, stinging her eyes as the rain soaked her through. She'd had the foresight to pack a raincoat in her carry on bag, Chicago notorious for the wet, windy weather she was experiencing right now. Pretty soon, after boarding the shuttle bus that had been sent to ferry her to the terminal entrance, Nica found herself presenting her passport to yet another generic face, authority stamped across it as she was once again waved through, no hesitation. It was only as she reached baggage that she remembered her phone, still switched off and resting in her purse after the flight. As she waited with the chaperone the airport had provided, along with the rest of her fellow passengers, the baggage carousel started spinning. It seemed ages before anything resembling a suitcase appeared so, removing her phone from her purse, she turned it on and waited for it to pick up a signal. Within minutes her phone gave off a rather audible 'beep' as she was alerted to a message awaiting her attention. She was just about to view the message when the phone made another noise, startling her as she noticed a voicemail also awaiting her investigation. Deciding to check the text message first, Nica was left deflated at the words greeting her on screen.

"Hey Nica. Where R U?  
>Somebody looking 4 U!<br>Joel x"

She didn't know what she had gotten her hopes up for, but just finding a small, meaningless message like that from Joel had pissed her off slightly. As she backed up to the home screen of her cell phone, she noticed the voicemail, also unchecked. She took a quick glance to the baggage carousel and noticed there were a few cases starting to move along, hers being one of them.

"Shit." Nica looked at her phone, hurriedly placing it back in her purse as she pointed to her case. "That's the one. With the red ribbon." She turned, looking to the female chaperone. Taking a few steps forward, the woman grabbed Nica's case from the belt in one swift, experienced movement before dropping it besides Nica.

"Okay sweetie." The chaperone puffed as the weight of the bag became apparent. "You okay to push yourself while I fetch this thing?"

Nica nodded as she gave her a friendly smile.

"Yeah I'll be fine." She said, placing her hand on her chest, her pain beginning to grow again.

Within minutes, they reached the arrivals gate and found Nica's cab driver patiently stood in line, the tacky cardboard sign annoyingly misspelt, reading 'Pierce'. Nica had gotten used to this and found it usually didn't bother her, but she remembered giving the cab company the correct spelling over the phone back in Hackensack. She rolled herself over to the driver, and greeted him with a smile and a handshake. If anything, she'd learned how important these guys were going to be to her during her various stays, wherever they may be.

"That's me." She greeted the driver as he lowered the placard and shook her raised hand.

"Hey," He welcomed her. "Right on time too. Can't tell you how many planes get held up coming in here." He chuckled, his large stomach rippling with each bellow of laughter. His toothless grin was instantly noticeable, as were the stained yellow fingers as he loosened his grip on Nica's hand.

"Well," Nica replied. "This is the windy city right?" She gave a little giggle of her own.

"Hell yeah." The driver swooped down and grabbed Nica's case, picking it up as though filled with fresh air. "Can you keep up? Or do you need me to go slow honey?"

Nica watched as the mountain of a man slowly started waddling away from her, the crack of his backside showing above the waist line of his stained jeans, the white shirt gracing his upper body stained with various condiments. Nica couldn't quite figure out how stains like that would ever appear on the back of a shirt. But then gave a shudder as she instantly imagined the grunting Neanderthal achieving these random stains through various passionate acts. He'd walked about five yards before he turned to Nica, panting heavily. Very heavily for the distance he'd covered.

"I should be fine." Nica answered, disbelief ruminating through her mind.

Nica had decided to splash out as she returned home to Chicago, spending some of her belated inheritance from her mother's estate on a few nights at the luxurious Hotel Monaco. The room on the seventh floor promising to give her a beautiful, sweeping view of the Chicago River as it slowly flowed by. Sightseeing and enjoying the view nearing the top of her list now she had suddenly found herself with no leads to follow up during her visit. The cab driver hadn't been one for conversation so far, hardly speaking a word since slamming his door shut and grunting as he threw Nica's wheelchair in the trunk. It was at this point that she remembered her phone, the voicemail. Nobody had left her a voicemail in a long time, people more often than not choosing to either text or just simply call back later. She quickly snatched her purse from the seat beside her and unzipped it, frantically searching for the glow of her phone, finally finding it beneath a bag of Skittles as the bag moved, candy spilling out and filling her purse.

"Son of a bitch!" Nica moaned as she grabbed her phone and removed it from the leather purse.

As she finally brought up her notifications, she saw the voicemail sat there, still waiting, and finally clicked on it before lifting the cell to her ear, her eyes closed in hope, pure desperate hope that this would be something to aid her investigation.

"You have one new message." The automated voice stated. "First message sent today, at 18:43."

Suddenly Nica's eyes flung themselves open, the familiar, low growl of her mystery caller from JFK International Airport leaping from the speaker of the cell and down her ears, igniting a feeling of ecstasy in her brain.

"Miss Pirce." He calmly spoke, his voice once again low and quiet. "I just want to apologise for my actions half an hour ago. I shouldn't have gotten so worked up. Look, I don't know what you're sticking your nose into this for, but my advice is still to leave it. Seriously. You don't know what the fuck went on back in '88. Nobody does. Not even me, and I was there."

He paused, Nica sensed he was taking another drag from a cigarette with the background noise, the deep breath followed by the long exhale immediately afterwards. He seemed very concerned about Nica getting involved in this, but why? She listened up again as the cop carried on talking.

"I know you've got your reasons, but believe me, this was some freaky shit. Nobody cares about it anymore. I don't know what you're doing this for, maybe a film, maybe a book, or some damned documentary, but it won't do any good digging up the past."

He paused again.

"However," He continued. "If you're really serious about this then I can get you what you want. But the price is $2,000. I'm not leaving a name or number, because frankly I don't want to be associated with whatever you're up to. So if you still want it, meet me tomorrow over at Miller's Pub. It's a bar over on South Wabash Avenue. Be there between noon and 1pm."

With that the line went dead, the automated voice chiming in again and giving Nica the option to repeat, delete or save the voicemail. Choosing to save the voicemail, Nica decided that the first thing she had better do the following day was to find a bank and make a serious withdrawal. It was usually about now that she'd approach the driver of the cab and ask to book him for tomorrows exploits, but she didn't feel like bothering with this one. Not only was he fairly unsociable, he was also sweating like a pig and spilling his burrito all over the dash board as he tried to manoeuvre his cab between two parked cars. She couldn't be bothered with sorting this now. After the day she'd had, the revelations she'd been faced with, Nica felt quite pleased, the phone call from her mystery helper giving her some light at the end of the tunnel. In no time at all, Nica arrived at her hotel and finally checked in, reaching her room quickly before slipping into something more comfortable and getting some well earned rest.

Tomorrow couldn't come quick enough.

Back in Los Angeles, Chucky was unaware of what had happened to Nica Pirce. A brief visit from Tiffany had revealed nothing but an empty house, the neighbour falling over himself to answer any questions regarding Nica and her location. But all he could do was offer to take Tiffany's number and pass it on. Turns out he was as clueless as anybody about where Nica had gone. Chucky wasn't particularly bothered about this, he had his own problems. First one being getting to the bottom of this whole David Jacobs thing. Why had he endured such a painful time in that body? He'd had the amulet with him, the transfer was successful, what the fuck had happened? Even now as he rested in this new, yet eerily familiar body, he felt lethargic, wiped out. But he could feel himself getting stronger. With every hour that had passed he could feel himself beginning to feel like he used to.

All he had to do now was rest. He figured another day or so and he'd be up to making his moves. Once he figured out what those moves were, and where he was headed.

But he'd figure it out in the end.

He always did.

The following day rolled around pretty quickly. After a good sleep and a more palatable breakfast, courtesy of the hotel's incredibly fast room service, Nica now found herself sitting at a table near the back of Miller's Pub. The place was beginning to fill up, various families, business men, office co-workers and normal every day people, out for a meal with friends piling in and ordering from the menu Nica had just been looking at. As nice as everything sounded, she couldn't eat a thing, her mind only able to focus on one thing, her mystery informant. He'd said to be here between noon and 1pm, but as the minutes ticked by Nica found herself questioning whether her man was going to actually turn up. As she made her way through her third glass of Pepsi, she was stunned when somebody suddenly approached and sat down across the table from her, a manila file under his right arm. The face that greeted her was filled out, not chubby, but filled out and covered in stubble, a moustache adorning his top lip, slightly greying in parts. As was the head of short hair, balding around the crown, Nica noticed, as he leaned forward and cast his eyes over the menu, the waitress racing over to take his drink order.

"I'll have..." He looked up and down the menu before snapping his head to the waitress. "Know what? I'll just have a white coffee." He placed the menu back in the rack and turned his attention to Nica, smiling smugly, the waitress disappearing between a sea of bodies with the man's order. Nica sensed an air of confidence from this man, not a bad thing, but enough to make her feel sick.

"I didn't think you were going to show up." She greeted him as she looked at the clock, 12:55pm.

"You must be joking." He offered his hand in a gesture of friendship. "Whoever's stupid enough to go poking round this shit deserves more than just a voice on the end of the phone."

"I see." Nica narrowed her eyes. He seemed deadly serious. "Would you extend this courtesy slightly and give me your name?"

He shook his head as his coffee arrived, the waitress delicately placing it beside him before moving off.

"No. Forget names, it's not important." He carried on shaking his head as he grabbed his coffee. "You have the money?"

Nica reached into her bag and produced a white envelope, throwing it down on the table in front of him, his hands moving incredibly quickly, swiping the envelope before anybody could see it. He held it just out of sight, under the table as he opened it up and gave the money a rough count.

"You have my file?" Nica asked.

The man pulled the manila file from the seat beside him and held it, dangling in front of her face. Nica reached for the file, the man suddenly yanking it back a touch and fixing her a concerned look.

"Take my advice Miss Pirce." His eyes widened. "Don't do it. There were things that happened back then that I'd rather forget."

He dropped the file into Nica's hands and she instantly pulled it open, starting to flick through the various pictures and paperwork. She looked confused, puzzled as she lifted her head and shot the cop a look.

"Where's the rest of it?" She asked. "This can't be it."

"What did you expect to find in there?" He asked as he leaned back, coffee cup held to his lips.

"It ends right after he died!" Nica replied sternly. "Where's the other stuff? The Barclays, the Good Guy doll, all that?"

"The police don't deal in myths and legends Miss Pirce." He calmly spoke. "Everything you've got there is what Charles Lee Ray did while he was 'alive'."

"But I don't understand." She spat. "If this is all there is then why are you telling me to leave it?"

"Because Miss Pirce." He leaned forward. "It's what this may lead to. This guy was capable of some pretty fucked up shit, if you'll pardon the language. You start sniffing around this whole thing then who knows what'll happen."

Nica knew what he was getting at. But she pressed him again.

"You say there were things that happened. Things you'd rather forget. That's the stuff I need to know." She pleaded.

"You don't want that file?" He gestured to the open paperwork on the table in front of them.

"No... I mean yes." She answered. "But I need to know more. I need to know what happened after he died. Please, you have to help me."

The cop sat back again and stroked his stubble laden chin, before leaning forward and taking a look around, making sure nobody was listening.

"What exactly do 'you' think happened?" He asked.

"I don't know. I read..." She composed herself. "The Barclays, Andy and Karen. He went after them, in the doll. He came after them and it was Mike Norris that helped. Shot him, killed him, right after he'd attacked them all. Including his partner Jack Santos." She was beginning to struggle to get her words out.

"Now listen." He leaned even closer in, his voice turning into a silent snarl. "Forget about Mike Norris. As far as I'm concerned Mike Norris was a fucking idiot that threw away a damned good career as a cop. He should've known better than to get mixed up with that psycho Karen Barclay and her fucking kid!"

As he finished, the cop took a final drink of his coffee and stood to leave.

"Believe you me Miss Pirce. I was there, it wasn't pretty, you don't look in any condition to go through the shit that this whole thing would put you through. Just leave it!" He ordered as he turned to leave.

Suddenly, Nica had a moment of enlightenment. Everything fell into place as she watched him walk, making his way through the crowd, to the door of Miller's Pub. The pieces came hurtling together, connecting and allowing her to see the bigger picture all at once. How had she been so stupid? So blind? As her eyes followed him through the bar she watched him reach the door, his hand shooting out ready to leave. Without thinking Nica did the only thing she could think of to get his attention and raised her voice, hollering across the crowded bar.

"OFFICER SANTOS!" Nica cried.

He stopped, frozen still, his hand on the door handle. Then very slowly, he turned his head and looked back across the bar at her, the rest of his body following as he spun on the spot and walked back through the bar, rapidly approaching the table. As he reached her he threw himself back down in the seat and looked at her, his pissed off expression giving way to a wry smile.

"Well done." He whispered. "Maybe a little louder next time, I think there's somebody across the street that missed that!"

"Why didn't you just tell me?" She asked, puzzled.

"I can do without giving my name to people that pay me to smuggle them highly confidential police files Miss Pirce." His voice turned a little sterner again. He sat back, looking a little more relaxed now as he rubbed his temples with his hand. "I'm due to retire next summer, and believe me the last thing I want is to be caught up in the middle of this whole Charles Lee Ray, killer doll thing again."

"I'm not asking you to." Nica leaned forward, trying to impose a polite figure upon Jack. "I just want to know what happened. You were there in the beginning."

He looked at her and gave a resigned sigh as he started to talk.

"Look, the night Charles Lee Ray died, he apparently swore to kill Eddie Caputo." His face turned to one of distress. "Sure enough, just a couple days later, BOOM, Caputo goes up in a damned explosion at his hideout. Nothing funny there. Gas leak apparently. Only one witness, a kid and his fucking doll."

"A Good Guy?" Nica asked. Santos nodded. "I'm willing to bet good money this 'kid' was none other than Andy Barclay too." Santos nodded again.

"Emergency services brought him to us downtown. We asked why he was there, did he see anything? The usual stuff." Jack continued.

"Let me guess." Nica smiled, leaning back in her wheelchair. "Chucky did it?"

"Got it in one kiddo." He lifted his hands and pointed at her. "Now obviously, the sane and rational among us would believe the story of a gas leak before we'd believe some kid ranting about his doll being alive. That's why the psychologist we had wanted to take him downtown, keep an eye on him."

"Where was Karen Barclay?" Nica asked.

"Oh she came down the precinct. Practically begged her kid to tell the truth. Stop making up these stories." He paused, sensing a little confusion concerning his last sentence. "This wasn't the first time. See, his babysitter fell from the kitchen window the same night he got the doll. He'd made these accusations about 'Chucky' then too. We all thought it just the overactive imagination of a kid. You know how it is."

Nica nodded, listening intently.

"Anyhow. She takes the doll home all's well, until later that night. Then according to Mike, she shows up down the station, claiming the doll had been operating without batteries, or some shit like that. Even said it 'came alive' in her hands and bit her before running off." He took another pause before flicking up his index finger, catching the attention of a nearby waitress. "So off she goes into the night, Mike not believing a damned word, but he followed her. She went all over the place trying to find this peddler that sold her the doll. She finds him, he turns nasty, then who appears from the shadows? Mikey boy, her knight in shining armour." The waitress appeared with another coffee, taking the empty cup and setting the fresh one down beside Jack.

"So what happened next?" Nica pushed further, he was beginning to open up, his tongue was definitely looser than it had been fifteen minutes ago.

"Mike was spooked." He answered. "This 'peddler', turns out he got the doll from the toy store where Mike killed Charles Lee Ray. The same store that was hit by lightning, right after he threatened to kill him and Caputo. No matter what, apparently."

"Lightning?" Nica asked. Her mind raced back to the storm engulfing the countryside as David lay in the ambulance at the bottom of the embankment. Their escape from Green Acre seemingly complete, until the moment Chucky chased them. The lightning hitting the ambulance and igniting it in a ball of fire as Nica looked on from the road, crawling to them as the wind and rain lashed her face.

"Yeah, lightning. The store was nearly destroyed. Turns out, that's where the guy got the doll before he sold it to Karen Barclay. Anyway, Mike drops her at home, not believing a word of it, but spooked." Jack carried on.

"How spooked?" Nica enquired.

"Enough to fish that file from the archives." He pointed to the file Nica had beside her on the table. "After that, he 'claimed' Chucky attacked him in his car. Says he put a bullet in him, his shoulder I remember him saying, and he ran off. So Mike now going slowly mad, looks through the file and finds this associate of Ray's. John Bishop, also known as Dr Death. Not because he was an evil guy or nothing, but mainly due to his use of voodoo. Apparently this guy took Ray under his wing, taught him a few things. By the time Mike finds Karen, they go pay him a visit. What do they find?"

"Dead?" Nica interrupted, engrossed in Jack's version of events.

"As good as." Jack replied. "Anyway, apparently, he tells them that he's put himself into this damned doll, but he's turning human. He only had so long to get out of it before he was stuck in there."

"So what did this John Bishop say he had to do?" Nica asked.

"According to him, the only person he could successfully pass his soul onto and leave the doll, was the first person he let know about his real identity."

They both looked at each other and spoke in unison.

"Andy Barclay!"

Jack nodded.

"So I get a call to head on over to the Barclay place. By the time I get there everything's gone to shit. The doll's burnt to a cinder, Mike's been stabbed in the leg. Not a nice scene. But Mike tells me that the doll is indeed alive. Which, ya know, call me a skeptic, but at this point I'm thinking Mike's flipped. So I go into the hallway, there's a leg here, an arm there, the head just sitting there. So I pick the head up and Mike goes mad. Telling me not to touch it, that it's alive."

"And you didn't believe him?" Nica interrupted again.

"I did a second or two later. The fucking thing crawled into the air duct and shot through a grill next my damned head. Tried strangling me, until I threw it off. Next thing I know, it pulls itself upright and Karen Barclay fired a shot straight through its heart. Then that was it." Jack gestured, pulling his thumb across his neck.

"That's it?" Nica asked.

"Dead. Gone. Done for." Jack replied. "The only thing now was, who's gonna believe us?"

"I'm going to guess nobody." Nica leaned back, giving her head a shake, her hair flicking out as she did so.

"Damn straight. Remember this was in the days before DNA results and all this up-to-date shit. Now Mike wanted to do the honourable thing. He wanted to stand in court and tell everybody what happened. Tell the truth. But by this time, Karen Barclay had already been committed, her kid Andy, into the foster programme. I didn't see the point. Mike felt differently."

"So what did he do?" Nica asked again.

"He quit." Jack replied, thrusting his arms out to his side. "Left the force completely to help Karen when people wouldn't back him up. Me included I'm ashamed to say."

"Why didn't you back him up?" Nica leaned forward, her voice becoming angry. "Everything you witnessed and you couldn't stand there and tell the truth? Those people deserved more than that."

"But who the fuck would believe me?" He sprang forward himself, bewilderment in his words. "As far as I was concerned, it was over. What was the point in throwing away everything I'd worked on, my entire career over that one freak episode?"

Nica turned away, disgusted at Jack's tone.

"What about the night he died?" She asked, returning her gaze to him as he slowly leaned back again.

"Who?" Jack asked.

"Charles Lee Ray!" Nica spat. "Who do you think?"

"I know who you mean Miss Pirce." He replied with a slight grin. "But do you mean the man, or the doll?"

"The man." Nica replied. "What can you remember about that night?"

Jack stroked his chin again as he thought back.

"You know, I have to admit, my memory isn't too good about that night. That was all just a night like any other really." He replied.

"How do you mean? You finally caught the Lakeshore Strangler. Surely that was a pretty big night." Nica shot back.

"We used to catch or kill dangerous criminals every week. That one was just like any other really. Obviously, we only found out afterwards how different it had been so the night itself wasn't focused on that much."

"So you don't remember anything?" Nica asked again.

"What does the file say?" Jack pointed to it as he reached for his coffee, taking another swig.

Nica lifted the file and opened it, flicking to the back. Her eyes whizzing left to right as she read. She looked up and started to rattle off the last entry.

"Suspect wanted in connection with kidnapping. Pirce, Sarah. November 1988." She whispered.

"Now that does ring a bell." Jack spoke, nodding his head. "If I remember right, he had some woman in his shit hole apartment. I seem to recollect she called the cops. A black and white pulled up, he spotted them and stabbed her before fleeing the scene. Left a right mess." Jack lowered his eyes as he tried to concentrate, remember as much as possible.

"Anything else?" Nica enquired.

"That was about the time we got the call." Jack answered. "He was spotted heading towards Wabash, not far from here. This woman he'd stabbed, told us who he was, what he'd done to her husband, what he'd done to others, how he was the famed Lakeshore Strangler. In fact, now I remember it, that night was pretty fucked up. That woman, the one he knifed before making a run for it, was heavily pregnant. But that's where Mike and I came in. I went after Caputo in his van, Mike chased Ray into the store where he eventually died... For the first time I mean."

"And the woman he stabbed. Did you ever find out what happened to her?" Nica asked innocently.

"I seem to recall she was okay. The baby was born, but there were complications, the knife had severed something. The baby was born paralysed from the waist down."

As he finished his sentence his eyes flickered. His eyes narrowed as he looked Nica up and down, noticing the wheelchair, everything starting to come together.

"What was the woman's name again?" He asked.

"Pirce." Nica answered her eyes turning to stone as Jack lifted his hands to his mouth in shock. "Sarah, Pirce!"

"Oh Jesus!" He whispered. "You mean?!"

Nica nodded.

"You were?" He was overcome with emotion. "Is this why you're doing this?" He asked as his eyes filled welled up.

"I only found out about this recently." She explained.

"When?" Jack asked.

"About six months ago when that little bastard murdered my entire family." Nica angrily responded.

Jack was speechless. His eyes widened with shock.

"You don't mean?" He whispered.

"Yes." Nica nodded once more. "Twenty five years later he came to finish the job. Starting with my mother." She started welling up too, her voice beginning to break.

"The doll?" Jack seemed restless all of a sudden. "He's still in there?"

Nica nodded again, her eyes taking in the transformation of Officer Jack Santos from a man of composure to gibbering wreck in less than two minutes.

"Oh yes." She answered. "He's claimed quite a few victims since you last saw him."

"Jesus, no!" Jack exhaled as he spoke, a hardly audible whisper as the colour drained from his face, the fear etched into every wrinkle.

"You could have done more. Made a difference, instead of hiding behind a badge and brushing the whole thing under the carpet. Do you have any idea how many people have died over the last quarter of a century? You could have done more!" Nica pressed him, venom in her words.

"Like what?" Jack shot back. "I mean, can you imagine? Taking to a stand in court of law and telling them that the person behind a series of murders was a fucking doll? Can you even begin to imagine what would be like?"

Nica fixed him a cold, dead stare as she peered, not just into his eyes, but also his very soul.

"Yes." She slowly, angrily, replied. "Because I've done it myself!"

"Then tell me Miss Pirce." He asked flatly. "How did that work out for you?"

Nica turned, her eyes unable to look at his face, she could feel anger beginning to boil over into a rage. He spoke again, his tone turning from argumentative to one of concern.

"You say there's been more?" He asked, worry across his face. "How many?"

"I couldn't possibly say." Nica replied. "You're the cop Jack, and the internet is wonderful thing!"

"I never knew he'd come back." Jack shook his head, his eyes meeting Nica's. "Honestly."

"Oh yeah." She paused. "He came back. Then he came back again, and again, and again... And do you know something Jack?" She asked as she leaned forward her voice turning to a whisper. Jack leaned forward so he could hear her, looking into her face, his expression one of a broken man.

"He never forgets!"

Looking up from his watch, Nica Pirce's stalker took another bite from his apple, making sure he had eaten every last bit before casually throwing it in the trash can besides him as he waited across the road from Miller's Pub. The multilevel streets had always been something that impressed him when it came to his home, and as he stood looking upwards towards the overhead train system, he couldn't help but feel a sense of pride. He'd been stood here now for a good hour, maybe even longer, as he awaited the exit of Nica Pirce, all along wondering what exactly she could be doing in a bar in this part of town. She obviously had money, otherwise, how else could she afford to stay at the Hotel Monaco? His only assumption was that she intended to meet somebody. But who? Various people had come and gone over the course of the last sixty minutes, so he was none the wiser by simply standing outside. He had considered going over to the window. Having a look inside, maybe even venturing in and taking a seat near to her. But he didn't want to push his luck. A lot had gone into this and he wasn't prepared to ruin everything by becoming over keen as they entered the home straight of this long, twisting and incredibly perilous journey. No, certain fates had aligned and brought him this far, and all on the word of one man. A man that had shared his heartbreak with them, his desperation to restore things to how they should be before the interference that had sent events spiralling out of control.

It was at that second that he noticed the door of the pub open and Nica Pirce emerge into the cloudy, drizzle laden, overcast atmosphere that was a typical Chicago November. As she was helped into her cab, the Caribbean stalker hopped into his car, firing the engine into life before slowly signalling and pulling out. He was curious to see where Nica would go now.

But one thing was for sure.

He would be following.

And he had a feeling they would be meeting sooner, rather than later.

Thousands of miles away, on the western coast, Chucky sat alone in the living room of the vast house. Freshly rested, he had given some thought to his recent predicament and the very brief time he had spent inside the body of David Jacobs. Finally, after giving it some serious thought, he was certain he had hit the nail on the head. Able to explain what had gone so wrong over so the past month or so. After explaining his theory to Tiffany, she had risen from her seat, a confused look across her face.

"But what about me?" She had asked. "Why didn't I suffer anything like that?"

"I don't know." Chucky had to admit. "Don't forget, I've been doing this a 'long' time. Maybe you were still quite fresh."

She gave him another look, one of mild hesitation.

"You're sure about this?" She asked again. "This is the only way? There's nothing else?"

"From what I can figure out yes. It's the only option and would explain everything." He replied.

"Okay. Leave it with me." She shot back as she grabbed her purse, pulling her cell phone out in one fluid motion before spinning on the spot and making for the living room door.

"Where you going?" He enquired.

She turned, giving him a nervous smile.

"Just to make a phone call." She responded.

With that she shut the door behind her as she entered the hallway of the house. Everything fell quiet for a while before he suddenly heard her voice, that high pitched voice that crackled with sexual energy. He didn't know who she was speaking with, with but he could just hear her, listening carefully to make out the conversation. Her part at least.

"Hello?" She calmly spoke down the cell phone. "It's me sweetface."

Chucky could always tell when she was about to ask somebody to do her a favour. Her tone turned playful and relaxed, giving her a refreshingly friendly demeanour. As he strained his ears to pick up as much of the conversation as possible he heard her speak again. Starting and stopping in fits and starts, her pauses obviously to give the other voice chance to get a word in. This was never easy with Tiffany.

"Listen. I need another favour." The pause seemed to last forever, but in truth it lasted a mere few seconds as the other voice protested.

"Well I pay you enough don't I?" She snapped back, the reply obviously not one she cared for. "Listen, all you've done so far is tell me where that god damned crash site was!"

Another pause. Chucky trying to piece together the conversation from the fragments he was only just able to decipher.

"It's not huge," She protested, returning to the calmer, sugar coated tone. "Some evidence you mentioned."

Chucky had to admit he was intrigued now. Why didn't he know what was going on?

"Well I don't care about the risk. It's either that or I phone the precinct and tell them what you've been doing for me..." She said, intensity growing in her voice. The pause again, a few seconds, whoever was on the other end of the phone was obviously a cop.

"Well I'm glad you've seen it from my point of view." She relaxed a little now, her voice subsiding into a more tantalising whisper. "Listen, stop panicking. I don't need anything physical. Do I remember you mentioning some letters? In the Pirce girl's room, back up at that Green Acre place. You said there was an address?"

During the empty gap, Chucky tried to figure out where Tiff was going with this. He had to be honest, he hadn't a clue. What was all this about letters? He couldn't remember seeing any letters in that room. Of course, he'd been busy dealing with that crippled bitch, the agony rising, searing through his thigh as she pinned him to her desk with his own fucking knife. Suddenly Tiffany spoke again, her voice filtering through the crack in the living room door.

"Perfect." She spoke softly. "You get me that address and phone me back by the end of the night."

The door of the living room slowly swung open as Tiffany took a step inside, a long, sexy leg revealed as the split of her skirt opened up as she stood, mid-stride, her heels hitting the hardwood floor with a click. With her phone held to her ear, she looked lost inside a world of her own, slowly and almost hypnotically speaking as she ushered her goodbyes to her police officer friend.

"Oh and Officer Mayer?" She spoke, softly, a ghost, her voice seeping down the phone, carrying a chill with it. "If you fuck me about? You'll wish you'd never been born. I'll make Green Acre look like a fucking pre-school!"

She pulled the phone from her ear and ended the call. Turning to look at Chucky as he sat there. He'd asked her why she'd let this Officer Mayer live if she'd already bribed him once before. For her to do that was very unusual. Her reply?

"I let the odd one slip through sweetface. After all, cops are just like puppies. The more sticks you throw, the louder they bark!"

With that, Chucky had enquired about the phone call. What information could she probably have regarding his current situation? As it turned out she had just what he needed. This was the only option available, and although Tiffany was dead against it at first, she had soon come round to his way of thinking. As he sat on his own in the living room, he now thought long and hard about his upcoming trip. After another days rest he would be back on form and ready for anything.

He couldn't wait.

Later that night, Jack Santos sat at the desk in his living room, the glow of the laptop the only light, his face illuminated by the white glow of the screen. He rubbed his eyes as he had done many times this last couple of hours as he trawled through the internet, alarmed at how much he had missed this last twenty five years. Taking in the various reports, articles, pictures and stories, he sat and thought before finally coming to a decision. After doing his research and downing half a bottle of bourbon he reached for the phone, his apartments landline, that sat beside him. Pulling out a piece of paper, he squinted as he focused and started dialling Nica Pirce's cell number, the news not expected to go down well, but he'd made his mind up. Before she could find him, try and change his mind, he'd be long gone. As he dialled the last number he waited for the ringing to start, but instead all he reached was the automated voicemail service of Nica's phone.

"The person you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please leave a message after the beep, or alternatively hang up, and try again at a later time." The automated female voice echoed down the line.

Thinking on the spot, Nica probably in bed, asleep, Jack decided to leave a voicemail for her to wake up to the following morning. His only hope, that she understood his situation and accepted his reasons for doing what he was about to. Closing his eyes, he found his voice, slightly slurred after the consumption of alcohol, beginning to talk.

"Nica... It's Jack." He paused. "I just wanted to apologise. For everything. I can't go through that again... Please forgive me."

With that, Jack Santos ended the call and stood from his seat in front of the laptop, taking one last look at the screen before carrying out his macabre act.

The last thing he saw an article, photograph and all, published by the Highgate Herald.

The headline?

**'Family Dead: Pirce Girl Blames Doll!**'


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Opening her eyes and lifting her head from the luxurious pillow of her hotel bed, Nica took a look around as the mid morning sunshine beamed in through the windows. A group of pigeons flew past, their shadows creating a flickering effect across the huge room as Nica pushed herself into a sitting position and yawned, stretching her arms skywards. She looked at the clock and was amazed. Just after 10am. Yet another night of peaceful, unbroken sleep. Looking to her left she spotted her phone on the bedside table deciding it would be a start to turn it on and begin making her way through the days work. She'd been through Charles Lee Ray's file time and again, but had been unable to find anything of any interest. There were pictures, some of the man himself, some of his apartment and various crime scenes he'd been associated with, as well as various entries on his criminal record. The guy had run up quite a list since his younger, teenage days. Assault, kidnapping, murder, breaking and entering, disturbing the peace, the odd DUI, the guy was well known to the police, long before it all came out about his Lakeshore Strangler persona. After finding nothing of interest in the file, Nica had returned to the internet and carried on her research that way, the only place she could think to visit now being the Play Pals factory across town. This had apparently been the scene of yet another Andy Barclay episode, Chucky supposedly taking him there and causing all manner of chaos as he relentlessly chased Andy and his foster sister, events coming to an end as they had apparently gained the upper hand and disposed of the pint sized terror at last. The tales were legendary across the internet, forums and websites dedicated to nothing but Chucky, some even sick enough to promote the little fucker as some kind of anti-hero. Sitting up and giving a yawn, Nica held in the button that sat atop her HTC cell phone, watching as the LCD display gradually sparkled into life asking her for a PIN number before promptly unlocking the cellular device. She was just about to redial the number for the cab company she had used the day before when her phone made a noise, the 'beep' of the message tone startling her. Funnily enough, there didn't look to be a text message, and as she lifted her eye to the top of the screen she saw two tiny symbols indicating a missed call and a voicemail, the latter sitting, waiting patiently for her to access it. Placing her finger on the top of the screen, she dragged downwards and displayed a list of notifications, finding the missed call from the early hours of the morning to be a Chicago number. Quickly flicking the button for voicemail, she lifted the cell phone to her ear and waited, her heart beginning to pound, her chest tightening slightly, throbbing with anticipation. Suddenly the automated voice crackled into life.

"You have one new message. First message, sent today at 01:34." The voice droned on.

As Nica waited, she found herself part happy she had turned her phone off, but also part curious to who on earth would be calling her at that hour. As she was lost in her own thoughts, the voice of Jack Santos appeared, crackling over the airwaves.

"Nica... It's Jack. I just wanted to apologise. For everything." Nica was instantly unsettled, the sincerity in Jack's slightly slurred words seemingly out of character. "I can't go through that again... Please forgive me."

The call suddenly ended, the line immediately dead. Nica stunned. What did he mean? Forgive him? For what? What was he planning on doing? Making a run for it? Surely he knew that wouldn't help him, or her. Anybody in fact. Lifting the phone to her ear again, Nica listened to the options on offer and selected to repeat the message. As she listened, the words took another meaning. Darker, morbid, a cry for help as she noticed his voice seemed filled with angst, fear and more importantly defeat. He sounded like he was surrendering, throwing in the towel. But how? What could he mean? Then it hit her. Like a ton of bricks it hit her. Nica felt winded, the air hammered from her lungs as she took on board the words of Jack Santos. She looked at the clock again, realising the voicemail had been left just a little over eight and a half hours ago, and could only hope that Jack Santos had come to his senses and not gone through with his drunken threat. Quickly changing and springing from her bed, Nica dialled the cab company and ordered a cab for as soon as possible, her head spinning as she grabbed her purse and made her way to the hotel lobby. As she reached the vast lobby area she was hit with the sounds of Chicago's finest as they checked in, checked out and generally milled about, whether it be meeting clients, awaiting cabs or simply making plans for another day of their vacations. Hurriedly racing to the pay phones in the far corner of the reception area Nica came to a sudden, abrupt halt as she almost clattered into the phone, sat proud as it clung to the tiled wall of the hotel lobby. She yanked the white pages from the desk below the phone and quickly flipped to the 'Residential' section, hurriedly searching the names beginning with 'S' and soon enough finding the surname 'Santos'. As she looked at her cell phone, she made a quick mental note of Jack's number, obviously the missed call from the early hours of the morning, and tried frantically to match it up with a name and address listed in the book. After skimming her eyes over every entry in the 'Santos' name, Nica drew a blank, but on her second attempt she struck gold. There it was. The number on her phone displayed proudly alongside Jack's name and address in the book. As she ripped the page from the thick, heavy book, she spun her head, suddenly feeling a little guilty of the minor act of vandalism. Then, turning as fast as she could, she moved to the hotel entrance to find her cab parked, engine running.

Next stop, Jack Santos.

Her only hope, that she wasn't too late.

As the cab driver had greeted Nica she immediately felt at ease. His rich, wide grin as he shook her hand before opening the door had given her a feeling of comfort that she so rarely found in people these days. More to the point, he also knew exactly how to fold up her wheelchair, before delicately placing it in the trunk of the cab and jumping in the driver's seat, his hand automatically clocking onto his fare. He spun in his seat, addressing Nica as he put on his seat belt, the 'click' from the housing giving Nica a feeling of responsibility the driver from the airport seemed to lack somewhat.

"Where we headed then honey?" He asked.

"1350 North Lakeshore Drive." Nica replied hurriedly as she examined the torn page of the phone book she had clenched in her hand.

"The apartments?" The driver asked, causing Nica to look up, confusion in her eyes as she caught the driver's stare in the rear view mirror.

"Sorry?" She asked.

"The apartments." The driver replied. "That's 1350 North Lakeshore Drive. That where you're headed?"

"Well yeah." Nica spat, time running out. "That's what I said."

"Sorry miss." He shot back as he slipped the cab into gear and pulled into the throngs of Chicago traffic lining the street, horns blaring as people became irritated at the slightest thing. "Just you'd be surprised how many people give me an address, then when we get there... It's not where they thought."

"I see." Nica replied as she sat back, trying to relax.

"Yeah, those are the kinda customers that don't feel like paying for their own mistakes too, if you know what I mean." He continued.

"I bet that's irritating." Nica agreed.

"You bet. That's why when somebody doesn't look like they know where they're going, I figure it's better taking a few seconds to check first." The driver smiled at Nica through the mirror again. His high forehead and jet black, rapidly receding hairline, more than noticeable as he grinned, making his hair ride back a touch over his scalp.

"I'm actually from Chicago." She laughed. "Not the city though. A smaller, out of the way town."

"I getcha." The driver laughed. "The city's a pain in the ass at the best of times."

As the cab came to a stop at some traffic lights, the driver spun around and once again extended his hand.

"The name's Jimmy." He beamed. "And you are...?"

"Nica." She replied, her hand taking his once more and giving it a good, firm shake before he spun back into his seat and followed the queue of built up traffic through the gridlocked streets.

"So what brings you to the city Nica?" He asked as they rolled gently forward, his eyes constantly flitting between the road in front and the rear view mirror.

"Research." Nica answered. "I'm doing research on a few things."

"Really?" He seemed impressed. "What you researching?"

"A serial killer." Nica flatly replied, the cab bumping slightly as it began to pick up speed, rocking her back and forth.

"Wow." His eyes widened, his face dropped, but remained smiling as he chewed on his gum. "Which one?"

"I'm sorry?" Nica struggled to hear.

"Which one?" He repeated. "Speck? Gacy? Holmes?"

"Neither of those." Nica laughed as she realised she was playing a game of 'Guess The Serial Killer' with a cab driver. His smile disappeared, a look of concentration falling over Jimmy's face as he weaved in and out of lanes of traffic, his mind now on more than the road.

"Dahmer? Heirens?" He carried on, glimpsing at Nica occasionally through the mirror.

"Nope." Nica shook her head, closed her eyes and smiled slightly.

"Gein? Ray?" Jimmy went on, suddenly noticing the change in Nica's expression, her face turning serious, her eyes falling on Jimmy's reflection, not a word leaving her lips. "That it? Ray?"

"Yes." Nica answered, turning her head and taking in the view.

"Yeah, knew it had to be one of those." Jimmy said. "Not heard Ray's name in a hell of a long time though. Shit I remember all that shit about that kid with the doll back in the eighties and nineties. Damn well freaked me out just thinking about it."

"You know about that?" Nica leaned forward, placing her hands on the back of the passenger seat in front of her. Jimmy, turned his head and winked at her.

"Hell yeah." He laughed. "You don't forget things like that."

"No." Nica agreed as she sat back in her seat. "You can say that again."

"What was the name now?" Jimmy seemed to be thinking, trying to remember something, suddenly the words landing on the tip of his tongue, elation on his face. "The Strangler!" He shouted in joy.

"That's the one." Nica folded her arms across her chest, the dull ache she had been experiencing since leaving hospital now growing significantly, a scowl gracing her face as her memories raced to the surface.

"What else was it?" Jimmy asked. "The doll... Chucky! That was it. Jesus, that was like a damned nightmare. That woman and her kid. They must've been nuts. Especially after that whole thing at the factory."

Nica's ears pricked up. She bolted upright and shot forward.

"What was that?" She asked.

"What?" Jimmy replied as the cab came to a stop, another set of lights.

"About a factory." Nica gasped, her mouth struggling to keep up with her brain.

"The Play Pals thing?" He asked. Nica nodded. "Well... I dunno what went down. All I know is what was said. Rumours, that kinda thing. That kid and some girl ended up in there, made a whole load of mess. Said that this doll had tried killing them both."

"You don't say." Nica whispered under her breath.

"I know one thing though. There was somebody died there that night. So something 'did' go down." Jimmy spoke a little softer, his face becoming tinged with sadness.

"I didn't know about that." Nica replied gently. "Where is the factory? Do you know?"

"It's over the other side of town. See the tracks?" Jimmy pointed to the rail tracks across the street, the reason for the lights beckoning the traffic to stop. "They take you straight there, run right past where it used to be."

"Really?" Nica gasped as she looked down the tracks, her mind suddenly catching that last part. "Used to be?"

"Yeah." Jimmy replied as the lights changed colour, slipping the cab back into gear and releasing the handbrake. "Tore the place down back in '99."

"Jesus." Nica muttered. "Why did they do that?"

"Well Nica, rumour has it, they ceased production for a period of time. After that whole episode with the kid in the factory?" He gave Nica a look in the mirror once more, Nica nodded. "Apparently the bad press crippled the company. Real bad press too. All this killer doll shit really took its toll. The company went into receivership just before the mid-nineties. A halt in production obviously means a halt in profits. Unfortunately, there ain't a halt in the bills." He laughed.

"I don't get what you're saying." Nica was confused.

"Well all the time they weren't making money, the company started getting behind on the bills. People higher up sensing something bad and calling in various debts etcetera. The whole place was about to go under when somebody swooped in and bought the place for practically nothing."

"Really?" Nica asked. "Who?"

"A guy called Derek Sullivan." Jimmy immediately answered. "Came in, bought the place with this consortium he'd put together. Promised he'd pay off the debts, got the place up and running again. That was about... '98. Yeah about then."

"But why?" Nica was struggling to build a picture in her head. "Why would he buy a struggling toy company with such a bad reputation?"

"You tell me." Jimmy lifted a solitary hand from the wheel. "It wasn't like he was new to the place. He'd worked there for years before. Even before it all kicked off with Ray and that kid. But he wasn't high enough. He was high up, don't get me wrong, but not as high as he wanted. I guess he saw something he knew, a chance to be at the top of the pyramid and took a gamble with a lot of people's money."

"But it didn't pay off?" Nica enquired.

"Hardly." Jimmy laughed. "They started production again, some new stuff, some old. Even started making those dolls again. Don't get me wrong or nothing, those dolls were big when they first came out, but I think that idea was always destined to fail."

"In what way?" Nica pressed Jimmy again, leaning forward once more.

"Well they started doing the dolls again, once they'd been in and cleaned the place up. By all accounts that place was a nightmare. Kids breaking in all the time, some lighting fires, some just for the thrill of it." Jimmy raised his eyebrows. "No sooner had they started the dolls, then BOOM."

"It all happened again?" Nica nodded, leaning back.

"You got it Nica." Jimmy smiled. "First thing to happen? Derek Sullivan. Dead."

"Really?" Nica asked. "How?"

"Not too sure, I mean, don't quote me on this." He looked at her over his shoulder as he drove, constantly in and out of gears. "In fact don't quote me on any of this. But his P.A found him dead in his penthouse. Somebody really went to work on him. Strangled, tortured, beaten over the head. You name it, sounded like he took a hell of a beating before he died."

"And they never found out who did this?" Nica asked.

"Not that I know of." Jimmy shook his head. "Unsolved I guess."

"I see." Nica bit her lip as her mind worked.

"But then..." Jimmy continued suddenly. "It all went to hell with that kid again, and I mean, this is years later. He's all grown up now, off doing his own thing. But he makes a song and dance about this doll again. I don't know the specifics, but that more or less spelled the end for Play Pals."

"It did?" She asked again.

"Oh boy yeah. There was no coming back this time." He looked at Nica through the mirror again, turning down a small side street. "Next thing, the board starts making cuts. People started getting laid off, a few here, a few there. Next thing you know, there's even more out of work before suddenly, everybody's gone. The owners had to sell off the land, buildings and all, just to pay off the debts they'd taken on in the first place. That's why it was tore down in '99. Less than a year after Sullivan and his group bought it out."

Nica sat back in the rear seat of the cab, her mind awash with new information as the cab travelled down the street slowly, approaching a multi storey, red brick building, the driver slowing and pulling nose first into the driveway. Nica had one final question as the driver killed the engine and unbuckled his seat belt. She shot forward and grabbed his shoulder, just as he leaned forward to open his door.

"How do you know all this?" She asked. He turned his head, a sly smile igniting across his lips as he spoke.

"What? You think I've been a cabbie all my life?" He laughed. "I used to work there Nica. If it weren't for Play Pals going under, we wouldn't be talking now!"

With that, Jimmy jumped out of the cab and opened Nica's door, before quickly unfolding her wheelchair and helping her out of the cab.

"Small world isn't it?" He smiled as she started rolling towards the entrance of 1350 North Lakeshore Drive Apartments. Nica spun her head, still dizzy from that little revelation, and addressed Jimmy.

"You can say that again." She sighed. "Wait here. I'll not be long."

With that Nica made her way inside and to the elevators.

The second floor her destination.

As the elevator slowed to a stop, the doors slid to either side respectively, before Nica made her way out into the corridor of the apartment block. Looking at the address she had ripped from the white pages, she noted the apartment was listed as 2-45. Her eyes looked up as she noticed the sign that greeted her on her exit from the elevator. Apartments 1-30 to the left, apartments 31-60 to the right. Turning slowly to the right and making her way down the long and hideously decorated hallway, Nica looked at the doors either side of her, apartment 45 more than likely down the far end. Typical. Her wheelchair seemed to glide across the thin and almost worn out carpet as she picked up speed, hoping that Jack had seen some sense and just gone to bed. No doubt she'd knock, he'd answer with a bitch of a hangover and there'd be a hell of a bruised ego for her to nurse into helping with this whole thing. Nica started to think. She was in remarkably good spirits considering all that had happened, especially this last month or so. Chucky was safely behind the door of a padded cell up at Longcroft, he couldn't do a thing to her from there, plus when she'd visited him to rub salt in his wounds, he'd looked like he could keel over and die any day soon. Which had delighted her no end. What goes around comes around, all that. Nica was dragged from her daydreaming as she noticed apartment 45 just up ahead, putting more energy into the thrusts of her wheels and reaching it in no time, hammering on the door. No answer. She hammered again, calling his name.

"Jack!" She shouted.

Nothing again.

She hammered even harder this time, raising her voice to uncomfortable levels, but looking up and down the distressed corridor, she figured it wouldn't be the first time this had happened.

"JACK!" She bellowed.

Still nothing.

Taking a quick look left, then another to her right, Nica raised her hand and placed it on the door handle, her breath deep and satisfying as the door opened with a click. She took another look around before opening the door fully and wheeling herself in. The apartment was a lot nicer than she had expected, not too shabby, she had to admit. The thick carpet making it harder, but not impossible, for Nica to manoeuvre herself forward along the apartments hallway. As she approached the first door, off to her left, she peered inside, the kitchen beautiful. Hardwood floors, marble work surfaces and integrated kitchen appliances as far as the eye could see. She had to admit, she was impressed at how tidy the place was. He hadn't come across as a neat freak, but not one thing was out of place. Carrying on down the hall she entered the living room, the first thing she noticed being the laptop sat open on the desk, the screen blank. Making her way inside she approached the desk, the wall to her side suddenly disappearing, her eyes catching something in the corner of the room. Spinning her head Nica suddenly realised what her eyes had caught a glimpse of, her hands shooting to her mouth, disbelief, sorrow and regret flooding into her mind as she took in the sight of Officer Jack Santos sat in the plush leather chair in the corner of the room. Head back, vacant expression on his face, both wrists crusted over with dry blood as the bloodstained razor blades sat innocently by his side, resting on the arm of the chair. Nica's eyes filled with tears as the sight greeting her began to sink in, the raw and emotion, the loss of life all too familiar. Her head jerked to the wall, besides where Jack was sat, something written. A dying message from jack as he sat back, the deed done, nothing else to do but sit and wait to bleed out. The blood had run quite a bit as he had left his mark, but the words were still eerily legible.

'NOT AGAIN'

Nica closed her eyes and took a deep breath. There was no use in checking his pulse. He'd turned blue, and as Nica held out one long, shivering arm she touched him, her hand recoiling instantly. Ice cold. His head was sat back in the chair, almost as though he'd been watching TV, but Nica was quick to notice the TV was actually in another corner to which he had been staring as he sat and waited to painfully expire. Looking into his long dead eyes and turning to follow his gaze, Nica could now tell what Jack had been looking at in the early hours of the morning as he passed away. Over on the desk, in the far corner of the room sat Jack's laptop. Taking care not to touch anything, Nica turned with difficulty, her wheels digging into the thick carpet of the living room, before slowly making her way over to the desk. As she approached, she noticed that the screen was indeed black, the laptop powered down, but simply hibernating. This thing hadn't been turned off. Whatever was on the screen was what Jack Santos died looking at, and Nica wasn't sure she wanted to see this. Almost automatically, and without thinking, she found her hand reaching for the mouse resting on the surface of the desk, giving it a quick wiggle, the laptop suddenly whirring into life, the screen making a clicking noise before slowly waking up. Nica was appalled by the sight that met her eyes as the screen turned on. The headline about her family, how she'd blamed the doll. What the fuck had Jack been doing? It took a few seconds for the shock to subside, but Nica then found herself moving the cursor over to the browsers 'back' button and taking in another page from the pre-suicide history of Jack Santos' laptop. The page before was a shock to Nica, something she hadn't expected to see, something that had practically slipped her mind now she came to think about it. Articles and pictures dated 1998-2000, concerning a grown up Andy Barclay, a military academy just outside the city limits, the notorious curse of the killer doll seeming to strike again. Nica made a note of the name Kent Military Academy, Andy Barclay's last known location, and carefully deleted the laptops browser history, before powering it down. Then, pulling the sleeve of her cardigan over her hand, she lifted the mouse and wiped it clean, hopefully removing any evidence of her presence whatsoever. As she turned, taking one last look at Jack, helpless, frightened and alone, Nica felt a wave of sympathy embrace her. She couldn't leave him like this, he deserved so much more, no matter what Nica had said the day before. Reaching for the phone Jack had by the laptop, Nica dialled 911, reporting her discovery to the authorities before hurriedly making her way out of the apartment and to the elevators. The CCTV cameras going completely unnoticed as Nica's head span in shock.

In the elevator, on the way down, Nica had pulled her phone from her purse and Googled the name of the military school. Luckily the place was still operating today, pupils freshly enrolled just this fall. In no time at all, she reached the cab, Jimmy noticing her approaching and jumping from his seat. As he flipped open the trunk and rear passenger door he spoke.

"So..." He paused. "Where to next?"

Nica's mind was racing, her body trembling as the adrenaline and shock took over her completely. All she could think was to press on, while she could, use the information she had just become privy to, end this thing, and soon.

"Kent Military Academy." She said, her eyes burning with fire.

She was another step closer to finding Andy Barclay and finally putting a stop to this thing once and for all.

The two hour drive had dragged on for longer than Nica had anticipated, Jimmy not as talkative now, perhaps apprehensive as he sensed Nica's mind caught up on other things. They had quickly left the city limits and headed East down the highway, eventually finding the signs for Kent Military Academy, the bulk of the navigating performed on the fly as Jimmy whipped out his road map and set to work. As the cab pulled off the highway and down the incredibly long, yet immaculately paved entry, Nica took a look around. The grounds were in pristine condition, lawns kept ridiculously short, hedges trimmed in the most wonderfully neat and straight fashions, the flags the most brilliant red, white and blues, waving from the flag poles as the cab reached the end of the driveway and swung into the visitor parking lot of the academy. Nica readied herself for entering the reception building as Jimmy unfolded her chair once more, the lies racing to the tip of her tongue, just waiting to leap perfectly from her lips, ready to claim an Olympic gold in lying.

"You want me to wait I guess?" Jimmy stood shuffling his feet, hands in his pockets as he gave Nica a friendly look.

"If you could." She replied. "I shouldn't be long. But you'll keep the meter running right?"

"Hell yeah!" Jimmy laughed as he pulled a pack of gum from his pocket. "I'll be right here. You go do your thing."

Nica turned, taking in the huge red brick building in front of her, the green window frames, the incredibly clean glass, obsessively pruned hanging baskets that adorned the face of the entrance. Slowly approaching and pressing the disabled button beside the ramp to the entrance, Nica waited patiently as the door to the reception of Kent Military Academy slowly opened up. Wheeling herself up the incline and in to the grand reception area she was left breathless by the sight that greeted her. All forms of weaponry swept the wall to her left. Rifles, hand guns, artillery, blades of every kind, all brought together to create a tapestry of death and destruction. As her eyes fell to the heavily lacquered, hard wood floor she turned her attention to the opposite wall. Portraits of various, historical, military figures from the academy's past positioned from left to right, top to bottom, completely covering the oak panel wall. It was deathly quiet in the vast reception area, the slamming of a door down the corridor reverberating along the wide passageway and erupting as it entered the area Nica found herself in. The receptionist looked up from her desk, lifting her pen from the notepad as she noticed Nica sat across the way.

"May I help?" She smiled as she acknowledged the wheelchair bound stranger across from her, raising her voice slightly, such was the distance.

"I'm not sure," Nica smiled as she started to make her way over, alibi dancing around her brain. "I'm trying to track down a family member I believe attended Kent some years ago."

"I see." The receptionist turned to her computer screen. "You'd have to make an appointment and see somebody in the archives, but the nearest you could see them would be next month I'm afraid." She continued staring at the screen, fingers working overtime as she typed.

"Next month?" Nica was shocked. "No, I need to see somebody now. Could they not just see me for two minutes?" She begged.

"I'm afraid not." The receptionist replied, shaking her head as she turned to address Nica.

"But please, isn't there anything you can do?" Nica pleaded. "It's taken me hours to get here. As you can see, travelling isn't exactly easy for me."

"I can appreciate that ma'am." The receptionist replied. "But even if I could swing a few things, there isn't anybody available. I'm sorry, but it just isn't possible. That's why we recommend anybody wishing the services of our archives team phone ahead and make an appointment."

Suddenly, the door behind the receptionist opened up, a well built figure, a giant of a man, appearing through the doorway and approaching the desk, carefully setting a handful of paperwork down.

"Is there a problem Helen?" The man asked as he placed a hand on the receptionist's shoulder. She looked up and gave a smile.

"Major Charleston." She answered, somewhat surprised. "No, I was just explaining our regulations regarding appointments with the archives. No matter how far a person has travelled they need to phone ahead."

"Is that so?" The man lifted his head, his eyes gently falling on Nica.

Without saying another word, he stood straight and marched to the front of the desk, his hand shooting out as he stopped and bent forward, greeting Nica personally.

"Major Tom Charleston." He beamed, arm extended, his smile allowing his perfectly aligned teeth to shine. His chiselled jaw, strong and square, Nica could swear it had been carved from a perfect piece of granite. "I understand you've made quite a trip, Miss..."

"Pirce," She finished the sentence as she firmly shook his hand. "Nica Pirce."

They released each other's hands, Nica's nose catching a hint of Major Charleston's cologne as he stood straight again, arms behind his back, his classic, military style buzz cut and military uniform lending him an intimidating presence.

"Archives huh?" He asked. "You're trying to find somebody? Chasing a service record?"

"I'm trying to find a family member. But now I'm being told to make an appointment which it would be impossible for me to attend." Nica replied hurriedly, her mouth moving faster than her brain could keep up with.

"Okay." Major Charleston held his hands up in a calming gesture. "Then come this way and we'll see what we can do."

"Thank you." Nica sighed as she grabbed the wheels of her chair, relief evident in every movement.

As he spoke, Major Charleston stood by the open doorway of his office, swinging his arm and beckoning Nica through. As she rolled forward and through the doorway, Major Charleston turned to address the receptionist.

"Helen, I've half an hour before I'm due down at the rifle range. Hold any calls and fetch in some coffee would you?" He flashed a smile, Helen feeling weak at the knees.

Nodding, Helen stood from her seat, before setting off down the corridor and out of sight. Major Charleston followed Nica through the doorway and into his office, turning to gently close the heavy wooden door behind him. As Nica sat at Major Charleston's desk, she found herself admiring all manner of framed photographs, medals and certificates that took pride of place on his desk and each of the walls. She spun her head left to right, taking it all in as Major Charleston took a seat and pulled himself up to his desk, resting his elbows on the surface and locking his hands together by the fingers.

"This is impressive." Nica laughed, acknowledging the collection of service memorabilia.

"Indeed they are." He laughed, his hand reaching out and grabbing the nearest framed photograph sitting on his desk, his eyes running over it, memories racing to the surface. "Afghanistan most of them. Some from Iraq too."

"Wow, you must have seen quite a bit of action." Nica gasped.

"Well it's a lot different nowadays I'm afraid." He set the photograph back down on the desk, pulling his hands back together, making a bridge under his chin. "Most of the action's performed by damned computers. Drones, bomb disposal, you name it. Still, it reduces the human casualties, so I can't grumble at that. That's always a good thing." He smiled.

"Definitely." Nica agreed.

"So what's the name of this family member you seem so determined to check up on Nica?" He uncoupled his hands and swivelled in his chair, turning to the computer monitor and keyboard to his left hand side.

Nica felt her heart begin to race and pound again, trying to compose herself as she lied once more.

"Andy Barclay." She replied.

All of a sudden, the door behind Nica burst open, Helen walking in, tray full of tea and coffee in hands. A she set the tray down on the corner of the desk she lifted her head to Major Charleston.

"Your tea and coffee sir." She smiled.

Major Charleston turned his serious gaze from Nica and addressed his receptionist.

"Thank you Helen. That will be all."

Helen, sensing her presence not needed, the atmosphere thick with awkwardness turned on her heels and bolted from the room, stopping only to pull the door closed behind her as she left. As the door clicked close, Major Charleston stood, pushing his seat back, before walking over to the window of his office, the view out over the grounds of Kent Military Academy just as impressive from the inside as they were on the outside.

"Andy Barclay." He muttered to himself, Nica only just able to hear him. "Now that's a name I haven't heard in a long time."

Nica seemed confused as she responded to his thinking aloud.

"But why would you right?" She laughed. "It's probably about what? Fourteen, fifteen years since he left?"

Snapping his head to the right and acknowledging Nica, Major Charleston spoke. His voice stern, abrupt, to the point.

"Let's cut the bullshit Miss Pirce." He snapped. "Why are you really here?"

"I'm sorry?" Nica was shocked.

"Reporter?" Charleston asked.

"No." Nica was taken by surprise. Completely caught off guard.

"Then what do you want with Andy Barclay?" He asked immediately.

"I just need to find him, that's all." She leaned forward, sincerity in her eyes.

"Well I'm sorry." Major Charleston replied, turning back to his desk and taking a seat. "I can't help you."

"What do you mean?" Nica asked, gesturing to the computer. "You haven't even looked."

Major Charleston laughed.

"Hell Nica." He shot back at her. "I don't need a computer to tell you about Andy Barclay!"

"You don't?" Nica was stunned, this wasn't going at all how she had envisioned.

"Hell no!" He laughed again. "You don't forget something like that. Jesus! That boy was..." He paused as he composed himself. "... He had issues. Caused a lot of trouble here."

"What can you tell me? You must know something." Nica begged. "Do you know where he is?"

"No." Charleston shook his head as he spoke. "Last we ever heard of Barclay was when he left Kent and disappeared under whatever rock he's found to hide behind."

"When was this?" Nica asked. "Roughly, I mean..."

"Probably..." Charleston looked skywards and rubbed his clean shaven chin. "The fall of 2000. See after the 'events' that occurred, we welcomed him back into the fold. Now I'll be honest, I didn't expect that kid to last two minutes when he came back. Not after all the shit that went down with the war games, Colonel Cochran, those stupid stories about that damned doll. But credit to the boy, he did it. Proved me wrong."

"What are these 'events' that you mentioned?" Nica asked, everything she had read about Barclay and his time at Kent had skipped over specifics. Mainly mentioning the fact that he attended the academy, and that was all. "War games? Colonel Cochran?"

"Not long after Barclay showed up here, he started ranting about this doll that arrived on campus, saying it was alive, whatever. Nobody really paid any attention. He'd this reputation for being a trouble causer over the years as it was." He paused, sensing Nica was beginning to become intrigued, then carried on. "Anyway, suddenly, all this weird shit starts happening. Colonel Cochran dropping dead, heart attack, but still, that guy served in 'Nam, Korea, he wasn't the kind to be snuffed out just like that. Then I seem to remember this garbage guy, crushed to death in his own garbage truck. Then there was the campus barber, throat slashed."

"Jesus." Nica replied. "You suspected Barclay at any time?"

Major Charleston shook his head as he finally poured a now luke warm coffee and handed it to Nica.

"Negative." He replied, firmly. "Barclay had an alibi and several people to back him up in each instance. We never found anything else out, who was responsible. In the end it was brushed under the carpet by the powers that be. Heart attack, equipment malfunction, suicide. All clear as the nose on your face in the end."

"So what happened then?" Nica asked as she took a mouthful of coffee, taking time to savour her first drink in hours. "When Barclay came back, what happened then?"

"He made all the right noises, all the right moves. After the war games fiasco, he got his nose down, and I mean hard. Became a soldier. Not just any old soldier either, but a damn good one. One of the best I ever taught anyway." Charleston's reply was dripping with pride as the words left his lips.

"Really?" Nica seemed stunned.

"Hell yeah." He shot back, eyes widening. "Andy Barlcay graduated Kent in the fall of 2000 with no less than a 94% grade in every class he took, from small arms to tactical manoeuvres."

"And that surprised you?" Nica asked as she finished her coffee.

"I'll say." Charleston replied instantly. "Before that he was a bed wetter. But no, something happened that night the war games went belly up. Changed him, made him into a man!"

"What do you mean about these 'war games'?" Nica asked inquisitively.

"Every year, Kent has an annual War Games. Two teams, capture the flag kinda thing, paint cartridges. You get the idea." Major Charleston replied.

Nica nodded.

"Only that year some sick son of a bitch decided to have a little fun and swap one teams paint cartridges for live rounds." Charleston continued.

"Good god." Nica gasped.

"Lost a good couple of cadets that night." Charleston sat back in his plush leather seat. "Shelton, Whitehurst."

"What about the doll?" Nica queried, catching Major Charleston off guard.

"Sorry?" He seemed confused.

"You said this doll showed up. Things went downhill from there?"

"Oh yeah, the doll." He laughed. "I never saw it. But from what I hear, Barclay was going nuts. Ranting about throwing it into some fan at this fairground that set up down the road. Said he'd destroyed it for good. Kept yelling at the cops to go check it out."

Suddenly Charleston's face took on a look of confusion, he was thinking, maybe remembering.

"What's wrong?" Nica asked.

"Come to think of it." Charleston looked at her, as if in disbelief. "There was a woman turned up here not long after all that kicked off."

"A woman?" Nica was taken aback.

"Yeah." He answered her. "Sat right where you are now, asking the same question. Where the doll was. Stunning girl. Blonde hair, attractive. Really wanted to know where that doll was."

"And what did you tell her?" Nica thought back to what Ted Langford had told her during her brief visit to Hackensack. The blonde woman at the grave, suddenly stopping her annual visits around the time of Andy Barclay and Chucky's final face off.

"What could I tell her?" Major Charleston chimed up again, rousing Nica from her thoughts. "Only place I could imagine that thing being was in the evidence depository down at Lockport Police Department. Told her to go down there and stop bugging me."

"Did you ever mention this to Andy Barclay?" Nica enquired, shaken by the appearance of this woman on the scene, despite the fourteen year gap.

"No way." He answered. "This was about a month after, when everything had finally calmed down for the boy. Last thing I wanted to do was set him off again. He'd really started to bloom at that point."

"I see." Nica acknowledged. "So what happened after he left? He just dropped off the face of the earth?"

"Well we don't keep tabs on everybody after they graduate, you understand that." He held his hands up. "Although try as I might, I wanted to keep track of that boy, such was his potential. Even now, whenever we have an event and we invite old pupils, he's always the one we fail to reach."

Nica sat back in her wheelchair and lifted her hand to her mouth, deep in thought.

"So I guess my trail ends here then." She sighed.

"Unfortunately Nica, it looks that way yes." Charleston replied as he stood from his desk, acknowledging the time and his schedule. "Now if there's no further business, then I'm afraid i'll have to bid you a good day."

"I understand. Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with me Major Charleston. I really do appreciate it. I'd also like to apologise for stretching the truth when I first introduced myself. I hope you understand I had good reason." She reached out and shook his hand once more.

"If you don't mind me asking Nica," He seemed apprehensive. "What exactly is your reason?"

As Nica spun on the spot and made her way to the door of Major Charleston's office, she turned her head as he followed on behind.

"We share a mutual interest." She smiled.

"Really?" He seemed puzzled. "And what might that be?"

"A phobia of dolls." Nica calmly replied as Major Charleston held the door open, allowing her to wheel herself through.

As she left the reception area and headed into the mid afternoon sun of the parking lot, Major Tom Charleston found himself with one single thought bouncing around his brain.

'That' He thought to himself. 'Has to be the weirdest half hour of my life to date.'

The cab ride back was steeped in frustration for Nica. Her leads had taken her from San Diego, to Hackensack, back to Chicago and now... Nowhere. After exhausting all lines of possible inquiries she now had no other leads to follow. Nothing she could chase up. Seeing as though she had a two hour ride back to the city, Nica decided to once more look over the notes from Charles Lee Ray's file. The same old thing leaping from the pages as she turned and read, the same pictures of his various mug shots, crime scenes, even the more interesting one of his disturbingly decorated apartment had began to seem bland, boring. Looking at the picture there was something definitely wrong with the mind of Charles Lee Ray. The tree of people moaning in eternal pain, the man on his knees offering himself as a slave to what looked like either a priest or some kind of god. It was only then, as Nica relaxed her eyes and took a less detailed look that she noticed something. She couldn't believe it. It was there all along. How had she not seen this? Dropping the file to the seat beside her, she pulled her phone out and brought up one of the various articles surrounding the death of Charles Lee Ray. There was the shot she had in mind, laying dead in the toy store after Mike Norris fatally wounded him. His long, dark hair, suit, and a necklace. The necklace, strange shape, hanging around his neck, one word standing out now as Nica examined it closer, zooming in as much as she could on her phone. There on the necklace, besides the red jewel sitting dead centre, she could just make out a word. Definitely the same word from the photograph of Charles Lee Ray's apartment. Holding her phone, she grabbed the photograph from the file, lifting it and examining it. On one of the walls of the apartment there seemed to be some kind of chant, prayer. She could read it quite clearly now.

'OH THANK YOU  
>MIGHTY DAMBALLA<br>FOR LIFE AFTER  
>DEATH'<p>

Holding the photograph in one hand, the phone in the other, Nica could clearly see the connection. So obvious she could scream. There, on the pendant that he was wearing the night he died, was the same name...

Damballa.

Nica now had a fresh lead, and after half an hour of Google, Wikipedia, various religious and cult web pages she could do no more. Her only other option being to ask Jimmy to take her to the biggest library Chicago had to offer. He'd argued that they'd not have much time before the libraries were beginning to close, but Nica figured it was worth a shot.

As Nica sat in the cab, she remained blissfully unaware, that three cars back and careering along the highway behind them sat her stalker of the last few days. His anxiety growing as he had waited patiently for Nica to leave Kent Military Academy. Now as they entered the city, he had been surprised that instead of returning to Nica's hotel, they now seemed to be pulling up outside the main branch of the Chicago Public Library. The Harold Washington Library Centre. Taking half a guess at what Nica had discovered, and reaching into an open bag of luscious red and green apples, her stalker figured that he would most probably be making the acquaintance of Nica Pirce before the night was over. Things could finally be coming to a head.

About time.

Back in the warmer, early afternoon climate of Los Angeles, Tiffany entered the down town post office, package delicately wrapped and stuffed under her arm, she made her way to the front of the queue and violently slammed the box down on the counter. The young, rather attractive male behind the counter looked up and gave her a welcoming smile as Tiffany removed her shades, remembering her lines, as she had done countless times before.

"Hello there." She smiled to the young post office worker, working her lips into a pout.

"Good afternoon." He greeted her. "What can I do for you?"

"Oh not much." She replied, drumming her fingers on the box. "I've just got to send this, overnight if possible."

"I see." The young man smiled as he reached for a form.

"Doesn't matter if not though." She continued. "Wouldn't do it any harm to sit and wait a couple days." She finished laughing as she returned to a seductive smile.

Suddenly the box made a noise and ever so slightly jumped, causing both Tiffany and the postal worker to turn their attentions on it. He gave a look before turning his attention to Tiffany.

"Nothing alive in there is there?" He asked.

"Oh no." She answered. "Just a toy. The kids have been playing with it. Probably left it on or something." She laughed as the young man seemed to relax.

As he took the box and stuck a barcode and a postage sticker on he started to type the address into the system, pausing to look up, returning Tiffany's smile and acknowledging the address.

"You know, I hear Aspen's supposed to be great this time of year." He smiled.

"Is it?" She casually replied. "I wouldn't know. I hate snow. That's why I love it here. Better than back home in New Jersey, that's for sure."

They both laughed as he scanned the box and placed it on the floor behind the counter, quickly ringing it up and taking payment.

After Tiffany had paid and left, the box sat, patiently awaiting, the last leg of it's journey.

Or so it thought.


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Dazed, shaken and confused, Nica opened her eyes, her head spinning as she tried to catch her breath, the arena of grey concrete filling her vision as she slowly came round. She blinked, her eyes blurred, beginning to focus even more on her surroundings. Questions flooding her brain. Where was she? A car park? How had she ended up here? Where was Jimmy? In the distance she could make out a building. A huge, steel construction, no windows but a solitary door, the streetlight to the right, the only light on offer as it flickered on and off. The concrete under her wheelchair seemed uneven as she placed her hands on the rubber surrounding her wheels and started to push herself forward, propelling herself gradually towards the building, towards the narrow, heavy, metal door. As she moved, the car park seemed to grow longer, for some reason she moved forward but found herself further and further away, eventually lowering her head and pushing harder, faster, grunting as she made way. Before she knew it, she looked up and found herself in front of the building, almost within touching distance, light grey and shining in the flickering light, the buzzing from the light bulb suddenly audible as it blinked. On and off. Dark to light. The randomness disturbing to Nica as her eyes flitted left to right. The building seemed to have grown in size, not in height, but in width, the steel structure stretching on forever in both directions as Nica sat stunned, wondering what the hell was happening. She lowered her gaze, concentrating, trying desperately to retrace her steps, remember what had happened, her thoughts interrupted as the light flickered one final time, breathing it's last breath, Nica's immediate environment plunged into darkness and panicking her. As she lifted her head, her heart banging in her chest she struggled to see a thing, such was the atmosphere surrounding her. But as she twisted and turned, thrusting her head from left to right, a light appeared in front of her as the door swung open, the hinges creaking and sending a shiver down Nica's spine. She found herself engulfed in light, spilling from the interior, the illumination growing across the floor, reaching her chair, working up her legs before eventually embracing her, the warmth spreading throughout her body and inviting her in. Without even thinking, Nica grabbed her wheels and rolled forward, nothing visible in the light emitted from the doorway as Nica found herself turning her head away, her eyes stinging, blinded. Before she knew it she had crossed the threshold and was carried into the light, the brightness beginning to fade and her surroundings now beginning to take shape. Bright colours everywhere. Reds, blues, greens, yellows, oranges, you name it the colours were scattered left and right, high and low, the noise of machinery humming away, the volume increasing steadily. Before she knew it, the door behind her slammed shut, the noise deafening as she turned in shock, the droning of the machinery and various equipment now dangerously high decibels. Boxes were stacked dizzyingly high on either side, as she emerged from the cardboard corridor, bright yellow, emblazoned with the slogan, "He Wants You For A Best Friend." Nica recognised these boxes, she had seen them multiple times over the last 6 months as she had performed her research, investigated the past. These empty boxes were intended for a mass production of Good Guy dolls, the factory she now found herself in no doubt churning them out by the truck full, something perfectly evident as Nica looked out across the factory floor. Dolls stood on a conveyor belt, noisily shunted from one section to the next as they underwent the automated procedures which would turn them from simple plastic moulds, into every kids most prized possession. These weren't normal Good Guy dolls though, Nica noticing as she approached the conveyor belt, doll after doll whizzing past. Some were normal, red hair and freckles. Some were stitched, the clothes shredded, dirty, faded. Others were missing half of their face, a mass of tangled veins, blood and bone. Nica pulled a disgusted face as a group of blood soaked Good Guys juddered past, the belt pausing only slightly as a machine lowered itself automatically and stitched hair atop the dolls heads. It was only then, in the corner of her eye she noticed movement. A little further down the production line, across a cluster of belts, there was a man, small and chubby, his brown smock instantly distinguishable among the sea of colours. He had his back to Nica and was stood at a machine, clip board in hand, ticking items off as he checked the huge, bubbling vat of freshly melted plastic in front of him. The vat of plastic was tall and red, with a valve just slightly above the man's head as he carried on with his work, the occasional drip landing on the shoulder of his smock and beginning to melt it, smoking slightly as it did so. Nica tried shouting to him, but it was no use, he couldn't hear her over the noise of the factory machinery, belts running here and there, doors sliding open and closed, automated arms grabbing various doll parts before vigorously fitting them to the blank doll torsos thrust in their direction. Moving forward and making her way around the lines of conveyor belts, Nica finally made her way through the metal and rubber maze and approached the man, his back still facing her.

"Hey!" She yelled loudly, trying hard to get his attention.

Suddenly the man stopped. Freezing on the spot and lowering his arms to his side before turning slowly, in one fluid motion and facing Nica. She could have been sick at the sight that greeted her, the valve of the machinery above still leaking slightly, still dripping and landing on the man's shoulder. His face looked lost, his eyes hanging free from their dark, crimson sockets and resting on his cheeks, his lower jaw completely ripped off, various arteries and a row of upper teeth exposed, his skin pale, almost white, contrasted heavily by his incredibly short dark hair. He reached a hand out for Nica and took a small, staggering step forward, Nica screaming at the top of her lungs, her shrieks and cries for helps almost drowning out the sounds of the factory. Just as she screamed the valve on the machinery above the factory worker started to shake rigorously, suddenly failing and allowing a huge spray of hot, melted plastic to cover the man, stopping him before he could take another step, his body melting instantly into the plastic river, appearing on the floor and spreading towards Nica's feet. She lifted her hands to her mouth in terror, shock and confusion as she took in the sight, the man now nowhere to be seen, completely destroyed, swept away in a current of hot, liquid goo. She was just sat, trying to make sense of her predicament as she heard the familiar cackle of laughter from behind her, instincts taking over Nica spun on the spot, met by the sight of Chucky standing on the conveyor belt as he gently floated past, blending in perfectly as he readied his knife and swung it at Nica's head. Ducking, burying her head in her lap and immediately wheeling herself backwards, Nica looked up, ready for the next attack. But there was none. No Chucky either. The factory, she noticed, had all of a sudden dropped eerily quiet and been cast into an ocean of darkness. The once vibrant colours faded, the clean and productive machinery now rusted, falling to pieces, as rats hurried about searching for whatever scraps of food they could. The dirt, dust and cobwebs surrounding Nica, lent the pace an unnerving atmosphere as moonlight shone in through the skylights high up in the semi caved in roof, highlighting the spiders and rats as they ran along the beams up in the rafters of the factory. Hearing a noise to her left, Nica turned her attention over to the far corner of the factory floor. A doorway into another section of the factory had appeared, no door in place, just rubber strips floating and flapping in the breeze. Curiosity getting the better of her, Nica started to move, making her way past the seized conveyor belts and across the dusty floor of the building. Besides the conveyor belt, there sat a small, hardened mountain of melted plastic, blood running from the top, arms sticking out, bits of hair here and there. The look of the thing gave Nica the creeps as she gave it a wide berth and made her way over to the rubber strips of the doorway, reaching it pretty quickly. She stopped short of heading in, trying to focus her eyes, the rubber strips clouding Nica's vision slightly as they flapped delicately, the breeze passing over Nica as she folded her arms across her chest and rubbed herself in an effort to get warm, the jeans and t-shirt she had on not fit for late night breezes. As she stared into the abyss of darkness behind the doorway, she heard a voice. A sick whisper, hissing and floating along the cool night air, reaching Nica's ears and sending her senses into meltdown. The voice seemed to be calling to her, tinged with malevolence and playfully taunting her as it called her name.

"Niiicaaaaaaa..." It whispered to her sadistically.

A light cold be spotted in the back of the next room, flickering, as the one outside the building had done just moments ago. Nica held her hand in front of her face and reached out, grabbing one of the rubber strips and peeling it to one side, trying o enhance her vision, get a clearer view of what awaited her on the other side. No sooner had she touched the strip than a hand shot out, small, rubber, stitches running across the back of it, grabbing Nica by the wrist and dragging her inside, one quick seamless motion. Nica screamed as she instantly came to a halt inside the room, nothing there, nobody, just an empty room, the light visible from outside breathing its last gasp of life before giving up the ghost, the room in complete darkness. As Nica sat, panting, her breath the only noise, black, darkness the only sight, she felt her chest. Sure enough her heart was banging like a drum, but there were no stitches on her chest. She pulled the collar of her t-shirt down to investigate. Could this be right? But it was. Her skin was pure, no scar, no stitches, just a dusky peach canvas, beautiful and untouched. As she began to calm down, her eyes were blinded once more, her retinas screaming in pain as lights of every colour were beamed around the room, the brightness bouncing back off the walls as fairground music began to play through the ridiculously underpowered factory PA system, cutting out and crackling every now and then, but still at full volume, Nica's ears ringing as the noise vibrated around the room. Throwing her hands up to her ears, Nica clenched her eyes shut, wishing this would end, calmness leaving her mind as she felt herself beginning to crack up. Then suddenly... It stopped. The music, the lights, the sickness Nica had been feeling as she became overwhelmed with the light and noise. Opening her eyes and taking in the cold, dark, empty room, Nica slowly and gingerly lowered her hands from her ears and sat back in her wheelchair, taking a deep breath and giving her eyes a blink, savouring the return to a normal environment. She had only just began to feel a little safer when Chucky appeared, upside down, inches from her face, a demented look of pleasure scraped across his ugly little face as he screamed manically at her, Nica flinching, gasping in shock, closing her eyes, expecting the worst. But it never came. There was no sound of his knife cutting through thin air on its way to her neck, no pain spreading throughout her body as he inflicted stab after stab upon her helpless, vulnerable body. Instead, as she opened her eyes, she found herself somewhere else, somewhere familiar. Back in one of the generic, sterile, dark corridors of Green Acre Mental Facility. Nica was confused. Her mind starting to race, make sense of what was happening, when she noticed a figure up ahead. As her eyes focused down the corridor, they landed on the figure of David Jacobs, stood by a door, his body rotting from the inside out. Hair falling freely from his scalp, teeth weeping with blood as he moved his blistered lips and waved a long, flesh deprived finger, beckoning Nica to follow as he turned and disappeared through the door, dragging a bloody stump of a leg behind him as he left a trail of flesh blood, warm enough to steam in the cold night air. Racing forward, faster with each roll of the wheels, Nica finally reached the door, spinning to her right and into the room beyond, but David wasn't there. The room was lit by a lone light, the lamp in the corner on the desk doing a decent job, leaving only the deepest corners of the room cloaked in darkness. As she spun her head and surveyed her new surroundings, she discovered eight gurneys lined up against the far wall, a body bag laying still atop each one. Turning to face the gurneys and slowly, apprehensively moving towards them Nica felt a chill as she reached the first body bag, blood oozing slowly from inside, the name tag hanging from the zip of the closed bag. Lifting the name tag and turning it over in her hand, she discovered the name of her mother, Sarah Pirce. For some reason, Nica wasn't shocked, it was as though she had known to expect it all along, the brain readying itself in advance. Moving onto the next gurney, thick, viscous blood leaking from the zipper once more, she lifted the next name tag, unsurprisingly belonging to Father Frank. She then moved onto the next gurney, the same scenario again. This time the name on the tag was Jill, her sister's nanny and lover. Next up, her sister Barb, then Ian, then Dr Abigail Weston. All people that Nica had known to be Chucky's victims. The final two gurneys were different though. There was no blood dripping freely from these bags. Nica couldn't tell just by looking whether they were occupied, they didn't seem as full as the others. She reached for the name tag and was unpleasantly surprised. The name sending a crackle of fear into every hair on her body.

'Nica Pirce'.

Confused, frightened and in shock, Nica grabbed the zip, her hands trembling, and yanked the zipper the length of the bag, immediately recoiling as spiders, scorpions and all manner of disgusting creatures and insects spilled out over the floor, the corpse inside that of Nica herself. Pale, ghost white in fact and at peace, a calm smile on her beautiful face. As Nica took the sight in she wheeled up to her body and looked, tears filling her eyes. Suddenly the corpse's eyes flew open, the milk white pupils flashing with mischievous rage as the dead body sat up, swinging its legs over the side of the gurney and throwing its hands around Nica's throat and squeezing. Nica gasped as she closed her eyes, willing her attacker off of her, fighting for breath as she felt the hands gripping her frail, swan like neck. Nica opened her eyes, hardly able to breathe and noticed the corpse was gone, the hands wrapped around her neck actually belonging to herself as she let go and took a deep, agonising breath and stared at her hands, held out in front of her face, examining them like some foreign object, programmed to kill. Leaning forward instantly Nica started vomiting across the cold, cement floor of the room she had found herself in. As she calmed down, she composed herself and sat up, leaning back and taking one last, long deep breath. Looking back at the bag with her name across the tag, she found it zipped back up, nothing inside awaiting discovery. She gave a little shake of her head as she moved onto the last bag, the name on the zipper belonging to Andy Barclay. Giving the bag a quick one over, she was astonished to find the bag empty. Nothing inside whatsoever, no nasty little surprises, no body, nothing. At this point, Nica heard a sound from behind her, a thudding noise, just the one, very short, and very loud. Turning to see what had just happened, she found the door used to enter the room now gone, in the far corner of the room now sat a table. Not just any table, but an operating table, the tray of surgical equipment by its side as a thin, white bed sheet slowly drifted from the high up in the ceiling and came to a rest across the table, the edges of the fabric hanging over the sides and waving slightly in the constant breeze. As Nica moved closer, she took in the sight of the tray of surgical equipment and started to feel sick, queasy and dizzy. Bone saws, chisels, scalpels, drills, all manner of tools sending the nausea racing through her. As her head began to spin, Nica couldn't tell what was happening, she closed her eyes, hoping to god the drunken feeling would dissipate, that her head would clear. But as she opened her eyes, she noticed that all was not as it had been. She was no longer in her wheelchair, instead she now found herself laying flat on her back along the operating table, wrists restrained by the chains attached to the top corners of the table, too strong, Nica finding the struggle she put up to prove pointless. As she tried to calm down, think rationally, Nica stared at the ceiling, her eyes beginning to take in the tapestry of despair painted above. Demons circling a tree made of human faces, each one screaming in eternal agony as they lingered in perpetual pain and suffering, trapped souls tortured and delivered by the demons to some kind of deity. All of a sudden, a nurse approached Nica as she lay, now paralysed, on the operating table. She hadn't noticed at first, but the 'click, click' of the nurses heels were now increasingly evident as she came to a stop besides Nica. Her shoulder length blonde hair topped off with a square, white nurses hat, the heaving chest threatening to overflow from the nurses uniform already filled to bursting with the incredibly voluptuous figure. The long legs, thinly veiled beneath the seamed, black stockings that came to a halt just before the short, tight uniform began. As she stood, looking at Nica, she leaned forward and ran her nose up the side of Nica's face, taking a deep breath. Nica noticed the tattoo across the top of the woman's breast.

'Chucky'.

Could this be? Nica couldn't believe it. Could this be the woman from the grave yard? How was this possible? Deep in thought, Nica was startled suddenly by the roaring sound of laughter on her other side, turning her head immediately to find none other than Chucky, stood by her side on the table, head back, shrieking with evil joy, scalpel gripped fiercely in his hand. As he leaned over Nica, he placed his face right up to hers, their noses almost touching and softly, spoke, his stale breath clouding Nica's face.

"Are we having fun yet?" He whispered calmly, before suddenly throwing his head back and roaring with laughter again.

Nica struggled again, but it was no use. Suddenly Chucky brought the scalpel crashing down, gouging into Nica's chest. Thrusting back and forth, violently jerking the scalpel downwards, Chucky laughed as the blonde ran her hand across her chest, the joy she was experiencing slightly sexual as she bit her lip and smiled as she stared into Nica's eyes. As Nica screamed in pain, searing and tearing through every nerve in her body, the nurse began to laugh, a low giggle at first, giving way to bellowing laughter. As Nica turned to Chucky, she began to feel him reach into the cavity, now opened up in her chest and start tugging, softly at first, then harder, rougher, suddenly lifting Nica's heart from her chest as he man handled it, fascination written across his face as he thrust it towards her, shrieking before holding it high above his head in one hand. As Nica's eyes were focused on her still beating heart, agony and confusion rolled into one expression, Chucky reached into his overalls and withdrew his knife, Nica noticing too late as he violently ran the serrated edge of the blade across her throat. Blood, muscles and arteries suddenly exposed as the blood began to stream from Nica's open wound as she leaned her head back and let out the loudest, most intense scream she had ever heard.

"Nica..." Chucky hissed as he sat on her chest, hatred pouring from his eyes and infecting Nica's very soul.

She looked into his eyes, freezing with terror.

"Nica!" Jimmy yelled as he spun round in his cab, throwing his arm back over the seat as he shouted for Nica to wake up. Nica's neck snapped forward, her eyes springing open automatically as she jumped in her seat, her hands instinctively reaching for her throat as she gasped sharply, a short, stuttering intake of breath entering her lungs. It took a second or two before she realised where she was and what had happened, but even as she began to relax, she could feel her heart thud up against her rib cage as the adrenaline, racing around her system, peaked and started to subside. Hands on her throat, Nica lowered her grip and spread her hands wide, palms flat across her breasts as she felt for her scar. Thick and ugly, running half the length of her chest, a constant reminder, a battle scar if you will, of her ordeals suffered at the hands of Charles Lee Ray. The pain, starting off deep beneath the scar had now started to steadily ripple, growing outwards across her chest, the intense throbbing making Nica close her eyes once more, taking deep slow breaths as the agony abated. As the pain began to die, she lifted her head and took in the sight of Jimmy, concern across his face as he sat open mouthed, unsure what he was witnessing, or even how he could help.

"Jesus." He muttered as he tilted his head slightly.

"I'm okay." Nica answered as she sat back, resting up against the rear seats of Jimmy's cab. She grimaced as another wave of intense pain washed over her, another deep breath. "This happens sometimes."

"Yeah?" Jimmy asked. "I never seen nothing like it!"

"Was I asleep?" Nica stared with confusion at him.

"Yeah. For the last half hour, maybe forty minutes. Something like that. Since we left the interstate anyway. But..." He left his sentence unfinished as he turned back around, face forward, and opened the driver's door of his cab, taking a step into the burnt orange night as the sun set across Chicago. He slammed his door and walked around to Nica's side of the cab, opening her door and leaning forward, eyes almost level, before finishing his sentence. "...we're here now."

Nica looked past him and out onto the sidewalk, the huge red brick structure of the Harold Washington Library awaiting her as Jimmy turned and approached the trunk of the cab, gently lifting Nica's wheelchair onto the kerb and unfolding it before leaving it besides the door and watching her perform her gymnastic performance, making her transition from cab to chair in record time.

"You want me to wait?" He asked, Nica turning and acknowledging him. "They'll be closing soon, so I can always hang around."

Nica nodded, smiling as he returned to the cab, radioing back to base. She turned and took in the beauty of the Harold Washington Library. It was huge. The red bricks topped off with green, turquoise steel and glass, with what looked like dragons adorning the apex and four corners of the roof. Nica had never seen a building quite like this, terrifying yet strangely welcoming at the same time. Dropping her eyes and starting to move forward towards the entrance, Nica spotted a smartly dressed gentleman, no older than fifty five, but no younger than his late forties approaching from the other side of the glass doors. His smile rigid, his small, almost pointless glasses sat low, right on the tip of his nose as he held the door open, welcoming her in.

"Good evening." He greeted Nica as she passed through the entrance. "You must be Miss Pirce."

Nica held out her hand, once inside the lobby of the library and smiled, her head still feeling a touch groggy from her sporadic nightmare just minutes ago.

"That's right and you must be Professor Cobb?" She beamed.

"Indeed I am Miss Pirce." He started.

"Please." She interrupted, "Call me Nica."

"Very well Nica." He replied withdrawing his hand, slipping it inside the breast pocket of his waist coat and removing a fob watch. Flicking the fob watch open he noted the time before returning his attention to Nica. "Unfortunately we don't have very long until the library is due to close, half an hour in fact. If you'd care to follow me, I've seen to it that any suitable reading material be arranged on the far table."

As they left the lobby, Nica was amazed. The huge library seemed like a ghost town, a mass of empty tables, librarians up ladders, pushing trolleys, replacing various books that some of the more careless of visitors had deemed too much effort to return themselves. Crossing the hardwood floor, they skirted in and out of a few rows of tables before finally reaching the table that Professor Cobb had so kindly set aside for her. At first, Nica was shocked. She had expected more than this. As she looked at the table, she could see only two books awaiting her perusal, not big books either, thin books that maybe had half a dozen pages of the hundreds within covering the subject she wished to study.

"Is this it?" She asked as she pulled up alongside the table, gesturing to the duo of paperbacks.

"I'm afraid so." Professor Cobb answered her apologetically. "Based on your requests, we were only able to pin point these two books."

"I see." Nica replied flatly, disappointment etched across her face, jumping suddenly, as did Professor Cobb, the entrance to the library closing with an almighty bang as somebody else entered. Both Nica and her chaperone turned to acknowledge their guest, taking a seat at the far end of the library, near the entrance, picking up one of the random books left laying around. Tall, well built and with a shaven head, Nica sensed something about this man as he coyly looked up, the apple in his hand more or less finished. Nica guessed him to be of Caribbean descent, maybe at around the mid-forties age, similar to Professor Cobb, as he turned his attention back to the book now lying open on the table beneath his eyes.

"There isn't much in the way of that kind of thing really." Professor Cobb spoke up as he returned his gaze to Nica. She spun her head, listening as he continued. "The occult? That kind of thing? Not really much demand for it I'm afraid. In fact, I don't think I've ever had anybody come to me with these requests. Voodoo, deities, witchcraft. There are a few paragraphs towards the back of the larger book, the name you mentioned, it pops up a few times. Damballa was it?"

Nica nodded as she grabbed the larger of the two books, opening it to the page Professor Cobb had kindly bookmarked. He was just about to turn and leave, before offering Nica some advice regarding the literature she sought.

"May I suggest, in the event that these books are less than sufficient, that you phone around a few book stores?" He leaned forward as his voice dropped to a whisper. "Some more specialist than others, maybe dealing exclusively with the occult?"

"Well." Nica replied. "I guess I can try these before going down that path. And what you've found, it's better than nothing. Thank you for this, it's appreciated really. I'll have a quick look through and be out of here in no time."

"It's no problem Nica, honestly." He smiled. "Though we do close in just under half an hour, so I'm afraid I'll have to insist on locking up at that time."

Nica once again nodded, as Professor Cobb spun on his heels and quickly marched away, back to the huge, oak desk near the entrance to the library, his shoes tapping as he walked. She took another glance at her fellow book enthusiast as he set his apple core down on the desk, raising his eyes slightly, almost as though checking on her. But he couldn't be... Could he? Nica instantly dismissed the idea, even after all the farfetched events that had brought her to this library, where she now sat, about to read up on the mythical Damballa. Focussing on the page, she was disheartened. The book actually saying very little, but speaking of a demon, the picture alongside depicting a winged creature, perched on a roof over looking a small town. With horns and a long, sharp tail flung out behind, the demon looked menacing as it sat, head turned towards the reader, sharp teeth displayed through the vulgar, menacing smile as its forked tongue hung from its mouth, whipping in the night wind. This demon was apparently hailed in the Caribbean as a god of sorts, the harvester of souls, taking from the weak and feeble and bleeding dry those unable to fend him off. The book painted it as a long lost relative of Satan, more mischievous, yet terrifying and as prone to violence as anything the western world had ever suffered. The rumour had it that the demon Damballa would stalk its prey, casting illness and dementia over them before pouncing, tormenting and driving the victim insane, only then able to offer the promise of paradise as the afterlife beckoned, lies spun from the wickedly silk tongue as it delivered yet another soul to its cousin, the devil himself. The book had nothing to say other than that, which left Nica feeling a little pissed off. Nevertheless, she was determined to see what she could discover, turning to the second book and opening that at the appropriately marked page. She couldn't believe it, the books were almost identical. Not word for word, but they spoke of the same thing. A demon, souls, evil, wicked, mischievous, Nica threw her head back and groaned, the noise reverberating around the huge room. As she lowered her head and closed her eyes, the stresses of the day beginning to finally take effect, she felt her privacy intruded. Opening her eyes, she turned and noticed the stranger in the far corner of the library sat staring at her. Not for a couple of seconds, but permanently, his eyes burning deep into her, almost as though he was trying to read her mind. Without saying a word, he stood up casually, throwing his finished apple in the trash as he made his way through the tables, easing his way across the floor and approaching Nica. Nica didn't know what to think, and as she looked up, she felt relief as she could see Professor Cobb still sat behind his desk, just in case things took an unexpected twist. As he approached her, he calmly and coolly perched himself on the corner of Nica's table, one leg on the floor, the other slightly raised, his hands held together across his waist. Then suddenly he spoke. His thick West Indian accent soothing, his face friendly and glowing with a warm aura.

"Miss Pirce." He began. "Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jeffrey Walwin."

Nica was stunned, questions racing to the surface immediately.

"How do you know my name?" She asked as she looked over the desk, nothing giving her name away, just the two books, now slammed shut as Nica tired of falling at every hurdle.

"I know all about you." He replied with a slight laugh. "Tell me, how have you been since the events up at Green Acre?"

Without warning, Nica pushed herself away, backing up from the table before suddenly pushing forwards and attempting to squeeze past her uninvited visitor.

"God damn." She spat. "I'm not in any mood for reporters!"

She started to roll of, her visitor still sat gently on the edge of her table, his raised leg swinging limply.

"Miss Pirce." He softly called after her. "I am not a reporter."

"Bull shit!" She turned and swore over her shoulder as she wheeled towards the exit.

"Miss Pirce it is important that you listen." He continued talking, Nica nearing the entrance, not stopping, not listening, her intention purely to get out of there. "I am here, because I represent an organisation that requires your help, and also an organisation that can offer the help you so require."

"Whatever." Nica sighed as she carried on.

Standing from the table, the man spoke louder, doing and saying whatever he could to get Nica to stop, to believe him, to at least listen to what he had to say.

"I assure you Miss Pirce, I am telling you the truth."

Nica put her hand out, almost at the door, just a few more feet, the voice carrying on behind her.

"Or may Damballa strike me down!"

Nica froze, her hand just beginning to wrap around the door handle as the words filtered through her ears and into her head, instantly snapping Nica's interest from the door. She removed her now trembling hand and placed it on the wheel of her chair, spinning very slowly and fixing her mysterious guest a stare. A curious stare, apprehensive, full of questions. As she sat, motionless, he began to walk towards her, hardly making a sound across the floor, the delicate footsteps almost giving the impression he was gliding effortlessly across a frozen lake. Reaching Nica he dropped to one knee and placed a hand on her wrist, smiling as he looked into her eyes and spoke, Nica relaxing even more with each word the stranger uttered.

"There is no reason." He began. "To fear Damballa Miss Pirce."

"What makes you so sure I fear Damballa?" She asked, her nerves making her voice break as she spoke.

"The books." He motioned back over his shoulder, towards the table, with his eyes. "Do not believe the lies. Damballa can show you many things, 'I' can show you many things. But we must go, and we must go now."

He quickly stood, his expression turning serious.

"Come with me," He spoke. "For there is much you need to know."

Nica didn't know what the hell she was playing at as the car pulled away from the sidewalk, the Harold Washington Library slowly becoming just another building in the wing mirror of Jeffrey's Lexus. As they took off and into the early, November evening, the unusually warm sunlight giving way to a fresh, crisp chill as the sun had finally disappeared, Nica had found herself desperate for answers, the questions she had dancing on the tip of her tongue hopefully about to be met with said answers at the private location Jeffrey had insisted she accompany him to. He had promised that on the way he would tell her the real story, explain everything about Damballa that Nica needed to know, and to his credit, he immediately set about doing just that.

"So who are you working for exactly?" Nica asked as they made their way through an intersection, the lights changing to green as the car approached.

"It is not who I work for Miss Pirce," He replied with a grin, his brilliant white teeth exposed. "It is who I am representing. We have been following you for a while now."

"Following me?" Nica was stunned. "Since when? How long?"

"We first came to know about you some months ago. Your story in the paper, on the news, the killer doll. What happened there was very unfortunate for you. We would have acted sooner, but 'he' told us to be patient, time would present this opportunity."

"Who told you to be patient? Who exactly is 'he'?" Nica asked in astonishment.

"That does not matter right now. You will find out soon enough." Jeffrey checked his mirrors and signalled, turning the corner and climbing the on ramp of the freeway.

"Well then what can you tell me?" She shouted, irritated, her hands raised.

"Hackensack." Jeffrey replied, focusing on the road.

"What?" Nica asked.

"You asked since when have we been following you. The answer is Hackensack." Jeffrey answered Nica.

"Hackensack?" She seemed confused, as though trying to remember something, a date, a time. "The graveyard? You were watching me in the grave yard?"

"Indeed." Jeffrey nodded as he quickly turned his attention to her, then back to the road and the traffic up ahead. "I watched from afar, you standing at the grave of the man who causes all this mess."

"The grave? You mean Charles Lee Ray?" She asked.

"That is correct. I represent what is known as the Council of Damballa." He hurriedly spoke. "Until recently all was well, but then the episode with your family, the doll, everything brought us chaos. Damballa not happy that this man, this thing, uses Damballa's power, Damballa's name for such evil. We now believe your bloodline to be under significant threat from the wicked thing that Charles Lee Ray has become!"

"My bloodline?" Nica was shocked, confused. "I don't understand. He destroyed my fucking bloodline. They're all dead."

"Not necessarily so." Jeffrey replied. "But enough of that. I've already said more than I should. This is not my job to tell you this."

"Then what the fuck can you tell me?" She asked, throwing her arms in the air again, this stranger with all the answers, yet nothing to offer her.

"Those books you read." He turned to her, his expression one of disgust, his tone one of fury. "In the library. Lies, all lies."

"What lies?" Nica asked.

"Damballa. They are wrong. He is nothing of the sort. No harvester of souls, no friend of Satan." Jeffrey shook his head.

"You've read those books?" Nica turned to Jeffrey.

"Yes, and others." He replied. "Wrong, all of them wrong. Words of white man, fear running through the heart, they try to blacken his name by spreading such lies, as has been the way for centuries."

"So if that's lies, then what's the truth?" Nica begged.

Suddenly, Jeffrey jerked the steering wheel, pulling the car over by the side of the road and killing the engine. He composed himself for a few seconds, before turning to Nica and beginning his truth.

"These books all speak of Damballa as a demon, an evil entity striking people down, stealing their very soul in exchange for praise from Satan." Jeffrey began.

"That's not the case. You've said that." Nica answered.

"No. These are merely the ignorant, hideous views of white men from centuries past. They witness Damballa first hand and seek to eradicate him from history, their religions exposed as weak and without evidence. Damballa was not like that."

"What do you mean?" Nica enquired. "You're saying that Christianity and Catholicism have tried to subdue this god of yours because they actually witnessed his powers?"

He looked at Nica for a second, his eyes glassy, before nodding.

"That is a better way than I ever could put it Miss Pirce." He smiled. "In our culture, Damballa is a god. One of many, but a significant god all the same. He is the gatherer of souls, ferrying the dead into the afterlife, welcoming them with open arms, but with the power to grant a second chance before the soul reaches its destination."

"Second chance?" Nica didn't understand.

"Yes." Jeffrey sat back, staring straight ahead as he spoke, traffic whizzing past. "sometimes, a person may have unfinished business, important things need addressing. In our culture, we believe Damballa has the power to grant a second chance, a chance to live again, but with grave consequences."

"Which are?" Nica motioned for Jeffrey to continue.

"If a second chance is granted, then the soul will eventually become the property of Damballa. That is the deal, a second chance in exchange for the soul."

"And do people actually take that?" Nica couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"Indeed some do." He nodded. "Take our mutual friend Mr Ray. Damballa not happy that an outsider such as this is able to continuously abuse powers not meant for him. Nor was he happy with the man that gave him such information in the first place, allowing him to return, time after time, again and again, each time Damballa's hatred growing."

"You said that other, more mainstream, religions fought to keep your god down, almost wipe him from the pages of every religious book going. What happened there?" Nica asked, her interest growing.

"This all happened many hundreds of years ago, in the Caribbean, when men from Europe first discovered the region." Jeffrey explained. "The island of St Vincent to be precise. Rumour has it that, years before, a man appeared. Entering a small village, the tribe slowly dying as diseases such as cholera, leprosy and many others took their toll. Then one day, after being allowed to rest, eat, drink, the strange visitor lays his hand on these people. Overnight, their fevers disappear, their lesions heal, in once case it is said that a man recently passed was brought back, a second chance if you will."

"Shit..." Nica gasped, unsure what to make of the story so far. But then she figured anything was possible, that had been proven recently.

"After this, the man was hailed by the villagers as a god among men, a miracle worker for his gift, a blessing on the village, and all was well."

"Until...?" Nica pleaded with Jeffrey to continue.

"Until one day, boats weigh anchor off shore, white men, never before seen in these parts. They come to shore and the man from the village meets them, offers them food, drink. White men, European, offer gun powder, bandages but the villagers do not require these things. They simply tell their visitors to take as much food and drink as they can carry. Unfortunately the peace is short lived. A handful of white men invited to join the villagers for the night, meet the tribe and experience some Caribbean culture. The men from the ships fetch alcohol, rum and wine. One of the men becomes rough with a tribe members daughter, raping her in full view of almost everybody. The man from the village becomes enraged at the actions of the visitors, raising his hands and chanting with furious anger. Clouds rumbled overhead, rain immediately began lashing from the skies, the ocean bubbling as waves, hundreds of feet high engulf the ships, dragging all but two to the bottom of the ocean. The man chants beginning to rip the very soul of the rapist from his now decaying body, casting him into a never ending purgatory."

"My god," Nica whispered as she turned her gaze from Jeffrey, taking every little detail in. "So what happened after that?"

"The remaining visitors flee back to their ships and lay in wait until the following night. That is when they returned to the village, in the dead of night, seizing the man and nailing him to a stake as, one by one, he is forced to stand and watch as the white visitors take it in turn rounding up the villagers. Beheading them in front of him, offering them as a sacrifice to their god, retribution, as the man screams for mercy. When the job was done, they finally set fire to the stake, burning the miracle worker alive, asking him only one thing as he screamed in agony."

"What?" Nica asked immediately. "What did they ask him?"

Jeffrey turned to Nica, tears in his eyes as he finished the story.

"His name." Jeffrey whispered, a single tear rolling down his cheek. "And as he burned alive, the flesh melting, dripping from his body, he screamed in a thousand voices 'DAMBALLA'!"

"That's terrible." Nica gasped.

"Some villagers returned the next day. The village was destroyed, nothing left, just charred remains of their friends and family, their homes destroyed, life as they knew it changing forever. The man known as Damballa remained nailed to the stake, his charred body buried beneath a layer of ash, his face twisted in anger and agony. Then, as if by sheer coincidence, one of the children found the man's book, in amongst the burned down debris of his hut, but completely untouched, not a single scratch. Inside the book, they found instructions, how to worship, how to ask for help, but more importantly how to help themselves."

"And is this book still around today?" Nica asked as Jeffrey slipped the car into gear and pulled back into the heaving traffic of the freeway.

"Indeed it is Miss Pirce." Jeffrey replied, smiling again. "It is still around, as the latest generation of Damballa's worshippers join to pay their respects. You see everybody in our circle are descendants of the villagers that escaped the barbarian acts of that fateful night. Now we keep the secrets, traditions, all kept within an immediate circle of most trusted followers."

"Except one." Nica added.

"Yes," Jeffrey replied. "This Charles Lee Ray episode needs to be brought to an end."

With that, Jeffrey started the engine back up, quickly joining the rest of the traffic. The rest of the ride was silent as Jeffrey focused on the roads, Nica taking time to digest everything that had been disclosed to her. She found once again that she had gone from a position of knowing absolutely nothing, having no leads, no new opportunities, nothing whatsoever, to suddenly finding herself in a position where she wondered, did she perhaps know too much. It was only as the car pulled into a car park behind a huge office building, that Nica found herself wondering what Jeffrey's thoughts were regarding John Bishop. How he had betrayed his brothers and sisters of Damballa by teaching the secrets to an outsider. And not just any outsider. As they left the car and approached the huge, glass double doors of the office building, Nica found herself automatically asking Jeffrey that very question.

"What about John Bishop?" She asked.

"What about him?" Jeffrey answered as he fiddled with the lock on the door, a huge ring of keys fluidly produced from his pocket.

"What did people think when they found out? You know... That he'd taught these secrets to an outsider." She continued.

"John Bishop would, by no means, profess to be a perfect man Miss Pirce. Everybody makes mistakes in life." Jeffrey's reply was soft and natural.

"Do you ever think things would be easier..." She paused, Jeffrey turned his eyes to her as the lock clicked in the door. "... If he were here? You know. Able to help?"

Jeffrey laughed as he opened the glass door and waved, beckoning Nica to make her way through which she did. As she rolled past Jeffrey and into the pitch black interior of the building Jeffrey spoke once more as he finished laughing.

"Miss Pirce." He said.

"After all you have seen and heard. Do you really believe John Bishop to be dead?"


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

As they entered the lobby, Jeffrey laughing as he turned to lock the door, Nica felt stunned. Her blood had turned to ice, her head immediately spinning in several directions, she felt as though the wind had been knocked violently from her lungs as Jeffrey delivered this huge bombshell. He turned, ring of keys in hand and let his gaze fall on a clearly disturbed Nica. His laughter subsided as a more serious look appeared on his face, Jeffrey realising how much of a shock this must be to Nica, an outsider with hardly any knowledge of his brotherhood.

"Miss Pirce," He began. "Allow me to apologise. I could have handled that better. I'm sorry."

Nica's head snapped up as she suddenly realised she was being spoken to.

"I'm... I'm sorry?" She stuttered. "What did you just say?"

"I apologise Miss Pirce." He repeated. "I can see how that would come as something of a shock to you."

Nica shook her head, still taking in this gigantic revelation.

"No." She muttered. "It's not possible. John Bishop died."

Jeffrey took two steps towards Nica and gently lowered himself to one knee, softly grabbing her wrists, delicately resting on the arms of her wheelchair. As he grabbed her, she stopped shaking her head, instead looking into Jeffrey's eyes, deep, dark brown and honest.

"Miss Pirce, you have seen many things this last six months." He spoke calmly. "Your family, your house, Green Acre... Even afterwards, the attack on you at your home in San Diego. Yet still you fail to grasp exactly what the power of Damballa can do? What wondrous abilities true believers are capable of?"

Nica stared, lost in her own thoughts as Jeffrey continued.

"I cannot tell you everything. That is not my job, I was only asked to track you down, follow you and fetch you to my superiors. They are the ones with the answers, they are also the ones that know where we go from here."

With that Jeffrey released Nica's wrists and stood, Nica's eyes following him as he approached another door, tall, wide and arched. Flicking through the keys on his key ring, Jeffrey finally settled on the biggest of the bunch, a skeleton key, something like a prop from a Frankenstein movie. As he slid the huge, rusty key into the old lock and turned, the sound of the mechanism echoed around the entrance of the building, the long labouring, yet highly satisfying click indicating the door had unlocked, mystery awaiting Nica just feet away on the other side. As Jeffrey pushed the huge wooden door open, he gestured, waving to Nica to follow him, to make her way through, which she did, slowly, her energy severely depleted. On the other side sat the largest room Nica had ever seen. Round, and immaculately decorated, the high ceiling adorned with chandeliers, chains and various carvings. As Nica looked around the walls, swinging from her left and following the circular shape of the room until it landed back on her right hand side, she noticed the tapestry leaping from the dull, wooden panels, a strip of vibrant colour in a sea of lacquered mahogany. The tapestry began to Nica's left and depicted the birth of a child, born from woman, still in the foetal position. Nica followed the tapestry, taking in the story, well told through the detailed and incredibly life like stitching. The next section showed the baby had started to grow, a small boy, setting off on a walk, a stick in one hand and a ragged, cow hide bag slung over one shoulder. Following this was a section dedicated to the life of this baby as it reached manhood, looking rough and tired, wandering the earth and meeting various people, joining up with the next section depicting the man helping people, placing his hands and healing random villagers. After this Nica could see the man now bathed in light, a golden glow from above, as several people were placed around him, praying on their hands and knees, clearly worshipping the man for the good he had brought. As Nica kept slowly turning her head, she flinched at the next bit, fighting had broken out, the man and his people caught in the throngs of battle as the white visitors over powered them, the man now in the next section nailed to a stake, burning alive, something leaping from his body as lightning flashed overhead. Nica took this to be the soul leaving the body, the tiny blue orb coming to a stop on Nica's right, the tapestry now finishing as it reached the 360 degrees of the room, starting afresh with the new born baby and beginning the events all over again, signifying the infinite spirit of Damballa. She was shaken from her concentration as Jeffrey softly lay a hand on her shoulder, Nica turning to look up, seeing that he too was enthralled in the rich art on offer.

"Beautiful isn't it?" He asked without taking his eyes from the tapestry, the light bouncing from his bald head.

"It is indeed." Nica answered, returning her eyes to the tapestry. "Do I take this to be the path of Damballa? Beginning so innocently, ending so violently, only to immediately begin again? Some kind of reincarnation?"

"You could look at it like that." He replied turning to acknowledge her. "But I prefer to think that could be anybody. That is how life is. Born, explore, help, fight, die, then repeat. That is the way we have been raised, and the way we will raise our own."

"I see." Nica replied, her voice a whisper.

All of a sudden, there was a noise. Another lock in another door, way across the huge room, swinging open, the man stepping through dwarfed by the gigantic solid mahogany door as he stepped through the doorway and into the room, hurriedly walking, making his way to Jeffrey and Nica. From Nica's first impression, she put the man to be in his mid-sixties, around that anyway. His grey, exceedingly short hair adorned his face and his chin, the stubble allowed to grown over the course of a few days. The man, like Jeffrey was well turned out, sharp suit, sensible shoes, and impeccable manners as he reached out to Nica, grabbing her hand and giving it a firm shake.

"Miss Pirce." He beamed, his enthusiasm obvious.

"Please..." She started, the old man instantly interrupting.

"Call you Nica?" He laughed, Nica's eyes opening in shock. "Don't worry, I can't read minds. That was just a lucky guess."

"Mr Dolucca." Jeffrey turned to his elder. "Is this really the time for humour?"

"Oh come now Jeffrey." He looked to him, smiling even more before turning back to Nica, still shaking her hand, realising and immediately letting go. "Nica, my name is Vincent Dolucca. Welcome to the Brotherhood of Damballa. The Chicago branch, if you will. Simply one of thousands placed around the world, such is the vast outreach of Damballa."

"Thank you." She replied, turning her head to acknowledge the tapestry. "I have to say, from the street, this didn't look like much of a church."

Vincent threw his fist to his lips, his index finger extended in a shushing manner.

"Nica, please." He smiled. "We try not to use that word here. True, we don't look like the first place people would come and worship their beloved deity, but believe me, there is reason enough for that."

"Which is?" Nica seemed confused.

"Why bring attention to something lambasted by what many believe to be superior, more agreeable religions?" He answered.

"I don't think I understand." Nica was definitely confused now.

"For centuries, Christianity and Catholicism have worked hard to bury our god, our religion, even our way of life. If they knew where we were, what we did, they would act swiftly. Fend off the competition as it were." His smile seemed to grow as he finished, turning to Nica in a friendly manner.

"They don't appreciate you?" She asked.

"It is that they are afraid more than anything." Vincent replied instantly.

"Afraid?" Nica seemed amazed. "Of what?"

"Unlike these more mainstream religions, the ones that people read a bit about, fairy stories mainly, then pick which bits they will follow, which are taken out of context. Our religion has something to offer modern day followers that theirs sadly does not." Jeffrey smugly finished his sentence, the smile never once leaving his face.

"Which is?" Nica asked, waiting for the impending answer.

"Would you agree that what you have seen, heard and felt during this last six months to be something of a miraculous nature Miss Pirce? The swapping of the soul from one body to another, so simple, so quick?"

Nica sat and thought, the words making perfect sense.

"Well yes." She answered, her head nodding slightly. "Yes I would."

"And when was the last time you saw a modern day miracle from the Catholics?" He asked. "When the Pope dies, it takes a full room of clergy to come to a decision, sometimes taking days, weeks even. Where is the miracle in that?"

Nica sat stunned.

"Or the Virgin Mary?" He carried on. "Do people really believe a story about God impregnating this woman over the far more rational explanation that she simply lay with another man? Absolute poppycock." Vincent spat.

"But if that's your reaction, then how do you explain your God?" Nica asked. "Don't get me wrong, I agree with everything you've just said. My family left the church many years ago. All except my sister, and a lot of good that did her!"

"You ask me where the proof of my God is?" He asked. "Did you not feel the proof of my God as it allowed the soul of that... That... Outsider... To manipulate a child's play thing, bringing your life to a complete and sudden standstill?" He stared at Nica.

Nica sat there, slack jawed, Vincent's words landing like a right hook. Slowly, she began to nod her head, realising everything he said was correct. Vincent carried on.

"No Miss Pirce, make no mistake if the Christian and Catholic church had their way, we would be wiped from the face of the earth, forever, such is their fear that they may be found out for the phoneys that they truly are." Vincent finally finished as he placed his hands behind his back and stood by Nica's side.

In the uncomfortable silence, Nica looked up, looking for a way to get the conversation back on to a more agreeable topic. Taking another look at the tapestry lining the wall, Nica spoke.

"This is really something." She nodded to the art.

"Isn't it?" He agreed, turning to look also. "It always makes me proud, to look on this work of art. Can you imagine the years, the work, the sweat and blood that went into this tapestry? It must have taken decades, easily."

"I can imagine." Nica nodded.

Vincent suddenly clapped his hands together, turning back to Nica.

"Well Miss Pirce," He began. "May I be the first to apologise about the recent events in your life, caused by the troubled soul that seeks to menace and bring the name of Damballa into disrepute."

"You mean Charles Lee Ray?" Nica's tone turned stiff and serious.

"Indeed I do. I can understand immediately why you may have misgivings about me and my brethren, but believe me, we can help each other immensely right now, hopefully be rid of the evil entity for good."

"But how?" Nica asked. "I don't understand, how can I help? What plans do you have for dealing with him?"

"For dealing with him?" Vincent laughed a little as he spoke. "We don't have any plans for dealing with him, for it cannot be 'us' that deals with him. All we can do is simply try and put the manipulator of Damballa's powers back on the path he was so suddenly taken from so many years ago."

"Meaning?" Nica asked. "If you can't kill him? Then who can?"

"That, Miss Pirce, is something you will have to realise for yourself." Vincent spoke quickly, as Jeffrey stood behind her, arms folded across his barrel like chest.

"I will?" She asked again. "But how?"

"You will know the answer, when the time is right, it will come to you." Vincent replied. "But there are two rules for the manipulator, in this case, our mutual friend Mr Ray. The first rule, he can be killed, this is true. By anybody too, this is also true. Once inside the doll he started to become human, his soul attaching to the form it was manipulating and becoming one. A simple knife or bullet through the heart would do the trick. Now this is all well and good, but as we have seen time and again, Mr Ray has a rather nasty habit of reappearing later down the line, his soul still lingering on. The person you have to think of, is the one that may ultimately rid us of this demonic pest. I mean for good. The end. Send his soul back to Damballa, who is waiting with bated breath. This person I speak of, is the first person that Charles Lee Ray first decided to confide in that he had passed his soul into the doll, binding them together, no matter the distance, until one of two outcomes is reached."

"What outcomes?" Nica asked.

"The outcome is either that the soul of Charles Lee Ray be slain, finally silenced, arriving for his judgment at the hands of Damballa. The other is not as pleasant." Vincent seemed hesitant.

"But what is it?" Nica begged.

"The second outcome is that Charles Lee Ray gain the upper hand and successfully transfer his twisted, evil soul into this same person. The only person that is a match, that the soul will join with."

Nica shook her head.

"No." She snapped. "That isn't true. If that was true then how did he manage to do what he did to David?"

Vincent gave a wry smile as he looked over Nica's head to Jeffrey, then back to Nica.

"Ah yes. Mr Jacobs." His voice was a whisper. "And what condition was Mr Jacobs in when you last laid eyes on him?"

"Well..." Nica stammered.

"I'll tell you what condition he was in Nica. He was falling apart. The body decomposing, not accepting the soul of another, rotting from the inside out." Vincent seemed to take delight in pointing this out to her. "In other words Nica, his very soul was dying, refusing to bond with the host. True, using the Heart of Damballa, an amulet found among Damballa's possessions all those years ago, the trickster can enter anybody he sees fit. However, with an organic body, this is only temporary."

"Well if that's the way it works then can we not just leave him?" She asked. "The last time I saw him he looked like he could drop dead at any minute. I wouldn't even be surprised if he'd died already."

"Alas no." Jeffrey interrupted. Nica turned, looking backwards and up into Jeffrey's face.

"Jeffrey is right." Vincent answered. "Not long after you visited him in that home for the insane, he had another visitor. She gave him the means, and alas, Charles Lee Ray is now back in a more familiar, more healthy state than when you last saw him."

"Is he back in the doll?" Nica asked, her world suddenly shaken, her worst fears coming true.

"Indeed he is. Aided and abetted by the same woman that dragged him from Damballa's path so many years ago." Vincent answered

"This woman. This path. What are you talking about?" Nica spat, her fury beginning to vent.

"Damballa had everything marked out for Mr Ray at one point, his soul brought ever nearer, until one day, 1998 I believe?" Vincent turned to Jeffrey, who in turn nodded, his face like stone. "Anyhow, a woman, blonde hair, answers to the name of Tiffany, snatches him from Damballa's grasp, interfering in a well laid plan. Since then, we have been very limited in chances to restore order to Damballa's plan."

"Tiffany?" Nica whispered. "So that's her name?"

"Yes." A voice barked behind Nica and Jeffrey, making the two of them jump suddenly. As they both turned on the spot, Nica found them to be in the presence of a young Caribbean gentleman, about the same age as Nica. As he stood, his black robes hanging from his shoulders, flowing out along the floor behind him, his sun glasses hiding his eyes, Vincent spoke up.

"Miss Pirce." He joyfully placed a hand on her shoulder as he joined her and Jeffrey. "Let me introduce Samuel Adebola..."

Nica looked at Vincent, a look of bewilderment on her face. Vincent, sensing much confusion spoke again.

"Or as you may know him... John Bishop."

Nica sat in her wheelchair, dazed, her jaw hanging open at this latest revelation. How could the man before her be the legendary John Bishop? Nothing seemed to be making sense anymore, it was as though she'd fallen into some living nightmare, the world around her distorting and turning itself upside down, inside out, over and over again. As she looked at the man standing before her, Vincent left her side, stepping forward and shaking John's hand.

"My friend," He started. "Thank you for coming at such short notice."

"Never thank me, for contributing to such a worthy cause." John replied with a smile. "Especially one which is all down to me in the first place my brother."

As he relinquished his grip on Vincent's hand, he turned to Nica, still sat open mouthed in her wheel chair. Taking a step forward he removed his glasses, Nica finally seeing the eyes of the man before her, astonished at how old they looked compared to the rest of his body. His eyes had more than a sprinkling of wisdom, experience, a look that said 'I've been here before.' Sinking to his knee, he grabbed Nica's hand and curled it into a fist, embracing it and lifting it to his mouth, softly kissing it.

"Miss Pirce," He began. "Allow me to apologise. If it weren't for me... This whole scenario would not be playing out around us right now."

"You're the one?" Nica asked. "You're the one, John Bishop? That taught these secrets of your brothers to Charles Lee Ray?"

"Indeed I am." He placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose as he stood back up, letting go of Nica's hand. "Not my proudest moment, but I thought he was a friend. Had I known his true character, his intentions, then believe me Miss Pirce, I would not ever have entertained such a man."

Nica shook her head, a smile appearing as she closed her eyes.

"No." She said. "John Bishop was in his late forties when he died. That was twenty five years ago, John Bishop, had he lived would have been approaching his mid-seventies now. You're how old? Early twenties?"

"Miss Pirce!" Vincent interjected, John immediately holding his hand up to silence him.

"It is a reasonable question, and I understand how this must appear Miss Pirce, believe me. For I once would have struggled to comprehend the sheer magnitude of my journey also." John calmly spoke.

"I don't get what you mean." Nica retorted, still feeling shocked and confused.

"I was born, again, just under twenty five years ago." John began, as he started to fill Nica in. "In Nigeria no less. A healthy boy, with a good family, friends, education. My life was good."

"What are you trying to..." Nica began, but John immediately carried on tlaking over her, louder than before.

"However... Around the time of my eighteenth birthday I had a dream. An epiphany, a vision if you will. There stood a man, addressing me, only I was not me. No, no, no... I was older. Let's say late forties? The man before me had terrible things to say to me, branding me a liar, a cheater, a dishonest man that should never have been trusted with such responsibilities. But this man was also gracious, offering me a chance to atone for my sins, another life in which to right my wrongs, restore dignity to his house."

"This man was Damballa?" Nica asked.

John nodded silently before continuing his story.

"Suddenly I am awake Miss Pirce, a revelation, everything making sense. I now have a great responsibility bestowed upon me, my first challenge, to leave Nigeria and arrive in America, seeking out my brothers here in Chicago. Armed with nothing but the shirt on my back and vague details of a dream, I set off out into the world, blessed with a gift from Damballa himself."

"What gift?" Nica leaned forward, trying to get her head around it all.

"The gift of vision Miss Pirce. It is not something I can call on at any time, but every now and then I will have a vision, a name, a place, an event. Like you, standing in Forest Hills Cemetery less than a week ago. With that little bit of enlightenment, I was able to give Jeffrey the perfect opportunity to track you down, follow you and see to it that we end up here tonight, together, at long last able to set things back to how they should be."

"I keep hearing that." Nica snapped. "Put things back. What exactly is all this? And why does it have to be me?"

"It doesn't have to be you." John replied. "But it is you. If you get my meaning. It could have been anybody, but fate has placed this firmly on your lap. The task of setting this abomination on the road to Damballa's intended target now in your hands, and your hands only."

"There is of course the threat to your bloodline Miss Pirce." Jeffrey interrupted. "As I said in the car, the threat is there. Nothing of concern to us, but to you it means everything, that is why it must be you."

"What threat?" Nica gasped, she had forgotten Jeffrey saying that on the way here tonight.

"The abomination is already in motion Miss Pirce." John looked at her, his hands held behind his back. "As we speak he is heading east, his intended target your very own niece."

Nica was knocked sick as the news sunk in, she felt her head dizzying as she fought to keep her composure.

"Alice?" Nica whispered to herself. "But why? How would he even know where to find her? She was so careful."

"We will discuss the why momentarily. As for the how, then it is quite simple really." John spoke as he walked past Nica slowly, Nica spinning to follow him. "After the events of Green Acre, the murders, the escaped convicts, you know. There was naturally a police investigation, letters seized from your room. The associate of Charles Lee Ray paying good money to a young officer to provide details found in these letters."

"Jesus!" Nica couldn't believe it. Her world had just come crashing down around her. Up until now, she had been comforted by the thought that Alice was safe, far from harm, hidden from any dangers. "I need to get to Aspen. As quickly as possible."

As she span from left to right, from Vincent and Jeffrey to John Bishop, she could have cried, such was her feeling of failure, her desperation to protect her little niece.

"Then Aspen you shall go." Vincent spoke as he nodded his head.

"I beg your pardon?" Nica's eyes widened.

"You must be tired Miss Pirce." Vincent carried on. "Please, follow John, have a drink of tea while we make arrangements for your trip."

"What're you going to do? Lend me your LearJet?" Nica asked, a hint of sarcasm to her voice.

As she looked at Vincent, he turned to Jeffrey, rubbing his chin with his hand, speaking with a touch of humour himself.

"Why is it, Jeffrey, that when people think of voodoo, they immediately think of a little fat woman, sat in a straw hut and sticking pins in dolls?" He turned to smile at Nica who returned the smile tenfold.

"Thank you so much." Nica placed her hand on her heart as she thanked them. Vincent turned to leave, while Jeffrey remained in the room, calling to John.

"Is there anything you require?" He asked.

"Yes." John replied. "Fetch us some tea, and send a flower girl too."

"Very well brother." Jeffrey acknowledged before turning and following Vincent from the room.

Nica turned to John, stood by a small, normal sized door, holding it open, his arm gesturing for her to follow.

"Come Miss Pirce." He beamed his huge smile. "Let's get to know each other before you leave us."

Sitting in the comfort of the private LearJet, Nica looked from the cabin window, the airport looking so much different in the dry night Chicago had to offer. With no time to head back to her hotel room, Nica had boarded the flight and was now ready for departure, her next stop Aspen, Colorado. As she rested her head against the window, she began to think of everything she had learned tonight, how far she had come in the space of less than a week when she had left San Diego with nothing but the location of Charles Lee Ray's grave and the urban legend of Chucky haunting various corners of Chicago. Her chat with John Bishop had been brief, to the point, blunt and rather disturbing, and now as she sat and remembered it, she had a feeling of dread gently washing over her as she faced up to the fact that things may never be the same again.

Reaching over the large mahogany desk, John had gently poured Nica a cup of tea, handing it to her just as there was a knock at the door.

"Come." John replied as he sat back, landing in the leather arm chair of the small office.

The door opened and in walked a young girl, no older than eleven or twelve Nica guessed. In her hands she had a medium sized cotton bag, drawstrings pulled tight around the top and keeping the bag held closed.

"Aaliyah." John greeted the girl as he leaned further back in his chair. "Please, come forward."

Aaliyah did as requested and walked into the room, approaching the table and coming to a stop besides Nica, opening her bag and holding it out as if offering it up to Nica. Looking at John, Nica nervously smiled, not sure what to do exactly.

"I don't know what you want me to do." She said, laughing a little. "Have I to...?" She motioned into the bag with her hand.

"Please." John gestured to the bag with his hand in a sweeping motion across the table. "But no looking, and only pick one."

Reaching into the bag, Nica was unsure what to expect, it was like some fairground attraction where you paid a dollar and then took a lucky dip into the bag. Feeling something in the bottom, correction, many things in the bottom, Nica was surprised how soft her hands felt brushing against the mysterious objects, gently grabbing one and withdrawing her hand. As she sat and examined the foreign object, she was surprised to see it was a flower, an orchid to be exact. A white one.

"Interesting." John whispered, narrowing his eyes.

"What?" Nica asked. "What is it?"

"Why it is a flower Miss Pirce. An orchid." He laughed.

"Obviously," She replied. "But what does it mean?"

"It means nothing Miss Pirce, not for now anyway. In the bottom of that bag are twelve orchids. Four white, like the one you have right there, another four black and the remaining four red." John explained.

"So why the different colours?" Nica asked, enquiring. "If they don't mean anything then why the different colours?"

"Oh they mean something Miss Pirce." John smiled. "One colour is for life, a celebration, a new beginning. Another colour is for death, gently, slowly creeping up and embracing when least expected. The other colour is for enlightenment, a journey about to be undertaken, experiences ready to enrich the soul."

"So which do I have?" Nica asked yet again.

"That I cannot say Miss Pirce. You have your orchid, and that is that. To tell you any more would be to play tricks with your mind. Please pick another."

Nica was taken aback, the last thing she expected, but figured it couldn't hurt, it was probably superstition above all else. Harmless, just a bit of fun. Digging her hand back in to the soft cotton bag, Nica fumbled around again, selecting carefully before withdrawing her hand and taking a look at the colour sitting there. Another white one. She turned to John, not sure what to make of this.

"Aaliyah, that will be all." He spoke softly, the young girl smiling at Nica and turning to leave. As she turned to Leave Nica made to give her the flowers back before John interrupted her. "Please Miss Pirce, they are yours to keep, you must take them with you on your trip. Everything will become clear when the moment is upon you."

"How do you mean?" She let her curiosity bubble over.

"To tell you more would be foolish." John answered. "Can I ask, do you have any idea why this abomination that we seek, this outrage against nature, would be travelling so far to see your young niece?"

"The only thing I can think of is that she's the one." Nica stared blankly at him, a stab in the dark, hopefully wielding the answer he desired.

"I would have to agree," He answered, Nica's face illuminating as she smiled. "But you are both wrong!" John spat rather abruptly.

"I am?" Nica asked. "But how?"

"Do not worry yourself," He lifted his hands in a calming manner. "Remember, this all started many years ago. It will all make sense eventually."

"I hope so," Nica replied. "Because not a lot seems to make sense any more. Don't get me wrong, you've been so kind in helping me with all this, but I feel so confused right now."

"It will all become crystal clear Miss Pirce. But do not begin to think this will be easy. For there will be sacrifices you must be prepared to make in order to keep your niece from harm. But only after you feel sure in your heart that you have succeeded, finally sent this abomination down the path Damballa intends for him."

"I'll do anything to keep Alice safe." Nica nodded as she spoke. "No matter what."

"That I am glad to hear." John smiled and folded his arms across his wiry chest. "As soon as I feel confident that this whole ordeal is over, then I will make my preparations, with my brothers here, and return to Damballa, hopefully absolved of any sins earned in my previous life."

"You mean..." Nica began, not knowing how to phrase the rest of her question.

"Yes Miss Pirce." John nodded, eyes closed. "I will have fulfilled my destiny in this shell, this empty vessel will simply be of no use to me. To carry on would make me no better than the monstrosity that mocks our mighty leader."

"I have one more question." Nica tilted her head as she addressed John.

"Oh?" John looked surprised. "I did not see this coming. No pun intended." He smiled.

"What about this woman?" Nica asked. "This Tiffany woman. What do you plan on doing with her?"

"Aah, Tiffany." A look of amusement crossed John's face. "The poor girl never was blessed with the highest of intellects. Don't get me wrong, her love for Charles Lee Ray was deep and unquestionable, but she was such a poor, deluded girl."

"So?" Nica asked again. "What will happen to her? Do you even know where she is?"

"But of course." John replied with laughter, waving his hands as if disregarding the subject. "Why we have already instructed our brothers on the west coast to act on our behalf. Ensure she never bothers us or Damballa again. You have my word, she will be dealt with. Her and the two other abominations."

Nica was shocked, disturbed by that last sentence. What did he mean? She was just about to ask, when there was another knock at the door, Jeffrey letting himself in.

"We are ready." He spoke to the two of them.

Placing his cup back on the saucer and standing, John strolled round the desk to Nica and once again lifted her hand, kissing it and looking into her eyes.

"May Damballa be with you Miss Pirce." He whispered. "Don't forget your two orchids. They are very important. And who knows, maybe we will see each other some other time. Some other place?"

With that, he let go of Nica's hand and made his way out of the room, leaving Nica and Jeffrey alone in the small office.

"Follow me Miss Pirce." Jeffrey smiled as he held the door open. "Your destiny awaits."

Now, sat on the plane as it hurtled down the runway, every crack of the tarmac under the landing gear sending a ripple of fear into Nica's body, she finally understood what she had to do.

Anything and everything to keep Alice safe.

Even that...

A few hours later, and after a hell of a long flight, Chucky was thrilled to finally feel the familiar bumping of runway under the US-X planes wheels as he finally touched down at Denver International Airport. From what he heard, it was likely going to be another four hour mountain drive up to Aspen, and that was only after the plane had been unloaded, everything scanned, x-rayed, and then finally loaded off to the sorting office. Yes, he knew he had a long wait ahead of him, but what did that matter? Nica Pirce didn't even know he'd escaped Longcroft, never mind had himself shipped up to his old 'friend' Alice. The only thing that had bothered him was the fact that he'd not been able to bring a knife due to the x-rays both in and out of the airports. This didn't worry him too much as a defence tactic, after all, he was a resourceful guy. But it meant he was trapped in here until he was finally ripped open, the unsuspecting recipient across the road from Alice and her grandmother getting more than he or she bargained for. Tiffany had looked at him like he was crazy when he suggested she mail him across the road.

"But why?" She'd asked dumbfounded. "What's the point Chucky?"

"The point is," He sarcastically turned to her as he sat in a small cardboard box of polystyrene fragments. "Do you really expect Alice, or the stupid fucking grandmother that I already tried to kill, to be over the moon when they once again receive this familiar sized box in the mail? Think about it Tiff!"

"You know what..." She'd said. "I never even thought about that."

"God damn, how the hell do you get anything done when I'm not around?" He snarled.

"Okay, you made your point." She dismissed his little outburst with a wave of her hand, lifting her shades and placing them on her nose as she looked in the hallway mirror and gave her hair a flick. She turned back to Chucky sat in the box. "Now lay down so I can tape it up. You're going to have to leave the knife too."

"What?" Chucky had seemed completely shocked. "I'm not leaving without my knife!"

"And what exactly are the security at the airport going to think when you show up on an x-ray with a knife?" She'd bent her leg slightly, her heel lifted off the floor, her head tilted slightly and her hands on her hips.

"Good point." He'd replied.

"Don't worry, somebody's going to open you when you get delivered, you just have to relax." Tiffany finished speaking as Chucky lay down, allowing her to fold the cardboard box closed over the top of him before unreeling strip after strip of tape and eventually securing the box closed.

With that, Tiffany had set off to the post office downtown, her job simple enough, send him on his way.

Off to Aspen.

And to Alice.

Nothing to worry about.

Apart from the fact that across Colorado, at the more local Aspen/Pitkin County Airport, Nica Pirce would soon be arriving.

Prepared to do anything to protect her niece.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

The amount of time spent sitting around the freight terminal in the cold, wet, Colorado morning had slowly begun to drive Chucky insane. The darkness enveloping him as he sat, with no legitimate means of escape from his, now soggy, cardboard prison. The polystyrene flakes were beginning to irritate as he was manhandled over and over again, thrown from one person to the next and slammed on various tables and conveyor belts, only the whirring of the machinery and the humming of various airport security equipment to be heard as they scanned his box. He had felt a sigh of relief wash over him as he had been thrown in the back of the van, the blatant, undisputable sound of the side door sliding shut behind him, ready to begin his arduous trek from Denver and onwards up to Aspen. The slushy roads and ice cold temperatures of the fresh, early afternoon had already taken their toll as he found himself curling up, as much as the confines of his box would allow him, a valiant effort to keep warm as the freezing winter weather began to set in. After an hour or so of driving, and hearing the tone deaf driver sing along to everything from White Zombie to Dolly Parton, Chucky finally closed his eyes and drifted off into a deep sleep. He had no idea what time it was, he'd spent what felt like an eternity clearing customs before finally being picked up with the afternoon mail, the voices outside indicating about 2pm. He'd tried to catch some sleep on the flight, but the noise of the engines, echoing through the cargo hold made the task impossible. But now, finally, the rocking of the van on the clear, wet tarmac began to lull him off and into whatever nightmare awaited.

He was stood on a rickety, wooden, porch...

The vast cornfields around him stretching into the distance, as far as the eye could see, rows and rows of corn, the rough, untidy leaves, luscious green, protruding from the fields around him. As he looked up to the moon in the night sky he couldn't notice how bright it appeared, the light so strong he was forced to literally hold his hand up, shielding his eyes from the brilliant white of the full moon, which seemed to be growing larger still in the night sky. It was as he attempted to shield his eyes that he noticed something.

His hand...

It was perfectly fine. There was no stitching, no scarring, no damage whatsoever. Lowering his hand and turning it over, he found himself amazed, euphoric as he swung his head to take in the view his other hand had to offer, laughing as he did, hands held out in front of him, staring at his palms in disbelief.

The other hand was the same...

No crude stitches, no rough, worn plastic digits. They were good as new, so were his clothes. He looked straight down, taking in his overalls, bright blue, the Good Guy logo emblazoned across his little chest in garish red, his jumper underneath full of stripes, vibrant, multi-coloured stripes. Reds, greens, blues, all colours, these clothes were brand new. Before he knew it, he'd lifted his hands to his face, feeling for the familiar pattern of ugly blemishes and splits in his plastic skin, but alas, he found nothing. He couldn't believe it as he let out a laugh. This was like the good old days, fresh and hungry as his murderous appetite knew no bounds, unstoppable. Spinning on the spot he found himself looking back at a small shack. Not too small, but only a one person dwelling, the appearance completely the opposite of how he looked. The broken glass of the front door, the faded, peeling wooden face of the building lending it an ugly and unkempt look as the cobwebs rested in the corners of each window, spiders hastily racing back and forth, their webs littered with hundreds of freshly ensnared flies. As Chucky approached the shack he stared into a shard of glass, still resting in the door as it hung by a solitary hinge, creaking as it swung in the gentle night time breeze. Holding out his hand, he caught the door, stopping it from swinging immediately, the breeze suddenly stopping and sending a shiver up his spine. Looking into the dusty, cracked glass he focused and tilted his head, angling it upwards as he took in his reflection, the freshly painted, brand new face of a Good Guy looking back at him, freckles, bright blue eyes, the works. It was as he lifted his hand to his chin and felt his face while staring at his reflection that he noticed something in the shack, in the back of the room, darting across his vision. His eyes flickered as he lowered his hands, instinctively placing one inside his overalls, withdrawing it to find a huge kitchen knife now clenched in his fist. Taking a step forward, Chucky grabbed the door and pulled, the metal hinge unable to take any more as it was suddenly torn from the wooden door frame, falling swiftly and landing on top of him, pinning him to the floor.

"What the fuck?" He whispered to himself as he placed his hands under the edge of the door, levering it up and away, letting it drop to the side with an almighty bang. "That's a new one."

Standing to his feet, he quickly brushed himself down before resuming his duties, the shape that had not long since flickered past his peripheral vision still inside the shack. Inside there was a smell, damp and resembling rotting fish, as he stared around at the interior to see water running from the walls, dripping from the light fitting that hung perfectly still in the centre f the room, as though somebody had left a bath running upstairs. But this shack didn't have an upstairs. As that thought entered his mind, he took a step forward, lowering his eyes from the light fitting and immediately training his eyes on the floor, that had suddenly become sticky underfoot. He was completely confused now, the floor beneath his feet stained in blood, beginning to pool, rising by the second. He turned to look at the walls, and now noticed the water had indeed turned to blood, racing from the corner of the four walls and gushing outwards over the floor, spreading to his very location. Without giving it a second thought, Chucky moved, his feet sticking at first as the blood congealed under him, but soon picking up pace and racing across the floor, thick, maroon blood splashing up and coating him as he ran. He'd just about reached the kitchen door when the most deafening roar he had ever had the misfortune to hear, erupted behind him, Chucky spinning his head, glancing back over his shoulder as the blood grouped together, forming a shape in the middle of the room. Rising as one, taking on the shape of a huge hand as it rose dramatically from the floor, the hand came crashing down behind Chucky, narrowly missing him as he dived head first through the door and into the kitchen, the open palm of the bloody hand crashing into the wooden floor and exploding, showering Chucky, completely covering him. He sat up, looking back into the room he'd literally just ran from and was amazed. It now seemed to be perfectly decorated, filled with soft, natural sunlight, white's and pinks adorning the walls, the thickest carpet you could imagine laid out across the floor while a child's wooden rocking horse sat gently galloping to itself in the far corner, next to the wonderfully restored front door.

"What the fuck?" He asked himself as he looked down at his hand, locked tight around the handle of the knife, coated in the viscous blood shower from just seconds ago. He looked back into the living room, turning suddenly to the kitchen he found himself sat in, dilapidated and half demolished, the wall almost caved in, the fitted cupboards and units filled with mould and rat droppings. But something sat in the middle of the floor, something familiar, that he hadn't seen for many years. Rising quickly to his feet, he scampered across the filthy lino that sat covering patches of the kitchen floor and grabbed the object. It was a doll. Not just any doll, but a voodoo doll. Dressed head to toe in white, the tiny red belt sat anchored around the waist and a childish scribble of a snake wrapped around some kind of sceptre. Chucky knew this doll, and as he had picked it up he recognised it had remained exactly the same as the last time he had seen it. The right leg snapped, the left arm also broken at the elbow. But more disturbingly was the split suddenly opening up in the middle of the chest, yet more blood starting to slowly weep from the wound, before turning into a steady flow, gushing from god only knew where. Before he knew it, the flow of blood had reached such a high pressure it was spraying over his leg and rising, steadily, up his overalls, past his groin, to his chest before suddenly the pressure became like a fire hose, throwing Chucky from the middle of the room and into the far wall, landing with a crash next to the back door, releasing his grip on the doll. Make no mistake, this was the same doll he had used to end the life of John Bishop years earlier, the renegade worshipper of Damballa that had taken Chucky under his wing, taught him all he could. Just then he heard a noise, emanating from the garden out back, filtering in through the empty doorway, as though something were calling him. Standing once again, shaken and dazed, Chucky wondered what the hell was going on. He'd never experienced anything like this before. He'd eaten some bad mushrooms once before, but that was different completely, although still strangely as horrific as what he was experiencing now. Steadily stepping through the back door he found the garden to be nothing but a gravel track, the expanse of cornfields once again seeming to stretch on infinitely into the horizon. Then he heard the noise again, this was without doubt the most lucid dream he had ever had, yet the fear projected on him had no limit, the hairs down his arms now standing to attention.

Wait...

Hairs on his arms?

What was going on?

He hadn't noticed before, but since standing from the kitchen floor, he had grown taller. His clothes had also changed, from the bright, colourful overalls he was so accustomed to, to a more formal suit and tweed overcoat. His hair also hung down his shoulders, no longer a burning red colour, but a much more haunting black. Turning, he looked into the kitchen window and found himself surprised at his reflection. There, staring straight back at him was none other than himself. Human, Charles Lee Ray, in the flesh, literally. The eyes were filled with doubt as he struggled to accept what was looking back at him, his head spinning with confusion, when suddenly and out of nowhere, his reflection jumped forward, cradling his face in its hands and staring into his eyes. He noticed his reflection, now hanging from the window pane, had suddenly developed a series of stitches across its face as it spoke, the forked tongue slithering away as it looked into his very soul and, lifting one hand away from his face, extended a long, slender arm towards the cornfields behind him.

"Out there..." The reflection of Charles Lee Ray spoke as it kept hold of Chucky's face with its free hand.

"What?" Chucky gasped, trying to turn his head, the grip of the reflection not allowing it.

"He's out there..." It repeated.

"Who?" Chucky asked, starting to worry even more, his chin beginning to feel cold, wet and sticky as the reflection rubbed its fingers on his face.

"The man..." It hissed.

Snapping his head around, Chucky broke free and turned on the spot, looking down from the rear porch and over the cornfields, seeing movement in the corn just a few metres in. He turned back to the window, to see his reflection once more, but it proved fruitless, the window just returning the lost, and panicked look he aimed at it. Noticing something, he raised his hand, knife and all, to his chin and ran the back of his hand across his face, a streak of blood appearing from nowhere. Chucky gave a shake of his head and stepped down from the porch, repeating to himself, over and over again...

"This isn't real, this isn't real..."

Before he knew it, he'd reached the corn, the tall leaves rustling just metres up ahead as Chucky carefully and apprehensively stepped into the giant crops and made his way towards the noise coming from in front of him. He stopped suddenly as he reached a mini clearing, the corn disappearing around the site he now observed. On the floor in front of him, sat a fresh grave, the earth covering the burial site still fresh, somebody obviously filling the grave in only recently. The head stone was covered in muck and dust, so much that Chucky couldn't read the chiselled inscription underneath, instead having to bend over and, using his free hand, brush away the dirt. What he read brought a chill to every inch of his body, the fear racing through like lightning, ejected from the skies and spat out across the land. He was still stood, bent over and observing the headstone when a flurry of hands ejected from the fresh grave and started grabbing him, pulling him downwards as the earth opened up. One grabbed his tie, others grabbed his feet and he felt another grabbing and ripping at his hair, more hands gripping the bottom of his trousers. As he was pulled easily into the gaping hole in the earth, he was astonished as he looked down in terror. A blonde woman, his name tattooed across her chest, flanked on either side by two children, both with the most incendiary red hair he could imagine, laughing as they pulled him deeper and deeper still. Before he knew it, he was up to his neck, the dirt closing in around him as he took one last deep breath and managed to get a final look at the head stone finally disappearing underneath. The inscription on the headstone still making his blood run cold as the life was effortlessly squeezed from his lungs.

**HERE LIES  
>THE RAY FAMILY<br>CLAIMED AT LAST  
>BY ALMIGHTY DAMBALLA<strong>

It was at this moment that the delivery van suddenly came to an abrupt halt, Chucky's box slung from one end of the van to the other in the most unceremonious fashion imaginable, other boxes around him clattering and falling every way possible. Before he could shake off the cobwebs, Chucky heard the side door of the van click before sliding opening, the whooshing noise ever familiar as the metal door slid along the runners. He opened his eyes and lifted his hand as far as he could through the polystyrene, trying and failing to rub his eyes. That dream had freaked him out a little, and he wasn't afraid to admit it. Before he could come to, he felt his box instantly yanked upwards, his stomach turning over and over, like some evil rollercoaster as he was manhandled up and down. The gaps between the cardboard around his feet suddenly lit up red, the driver scanning the barcode that adorned his box and ticking the item off his list.

"1783 Laurel Avenue..." Chucky heard the driver whisper to himself as the van door slid shut with a bang. He must have been swinging round, looking desperately for the house, as Chucky had started to feel nauseous, his box beginning to feel like some kind of centrifuge.

"This must be it." The driver said as he came to a standstill, suddenly starting to walk, a slight incline in his trajectory.

Laying perfectly still, trying not to move a muscle, Chucky yawned as he prepared himself. Expecting the unexpected. He could hear the unnamed driver knocking on the glass door, and a very faint cry asking him to wait a second. Before he knew it, the door opened and he could hear the friendliest, cutest and most annoying voice he had ever had the privilege of hearing in all his years. He used to think Tiffany was irritating, but he could tell immediately that one day with this cheerful bitch would make his urine boil.

"Oh my!" The sugar coated tones cried. "For me?"

"Guess so ma'am." The driver replied. "No name though, just the address."

"Oh that'll be my daughter," The woman said. "She's always sending me things since she left for college. I miss my Milly so much. You're lucky you caught me, I only just finished work!"

'Milly?' thought Chucky. 'Who the hell is this fucking idiot?' But before he could think another word, he felt himself thrown from one side of the box to the other, the woman snatching the parcel from the delivery guy without so much as a thank you or good bye. Moving forward, he heard the barking of a dog as the front door was heard to slam shut behind them, the dog becoming louder and louder still.

"Henry, get down!" The woman scorned the dog as she slammed Chucky's box down. He could hear the dog, he'd stopped barking, but the panting noise of an easily excited canine was still pretty audible as the woman seemed to be yanking drawer after drawer open looking for something.

"Now, where did I put those scissors?" She asked herself.

Listening to her, Chucky had built up a mental image over the last two minutes. She sounded jolly, and the way he had been thrown slightly side to side as she walked gave him the impression she was a large woman, waddling from one end of the house to the other. He placed her at around about the late forties, maybe early fifties, but he couldn't be sure. One thing he did know, she couldn't possibly look any more annoying than she sounded.

"Ah, here they are... Henry will you get down!" She yelled again, the sniffing off the dogs nose sounding crystal clear up against the openings in Chucky's box. "Now let's see what we have here."

Suddenly, before he could even think of doing anything, the blade of the scissors came slicing through the tape holding the flaps of the box together, stopping millimetres from Chucky's overalls, an ounce more pressure and she'd have cut him good. His eyes widening, shock setting in, the blade started moving down, faster, more frantic before reaching the bottom, fingers suddenly appearing and yanking open the cardboard. As the light came flooding in, Chucky fought the urge to shield his eyes, something he desperately wanted to do as he could feel his retinas burning from the sudden change. Playful smile slapped all over his 'doll like' face, Chucky stared straight up at the ceiling of the room, the woman only visible in his peripheral vision. Confused, the woman reached into the box and lifted him up, the polystyrene flakes clinging to him before gradually falling clear and landing back in the box as the woman brought him up her eye level, holding him upright and staring him up and down.

"What in the name of...?" She muttered to herself, Henry beginning to bark again, louder, constantly. "Henry, I will not tell you again!" She snapped her head to the side, focusing her attention on the dog before returning her gaze to Chucky.

"Hi, I'm Chucky." He blinked as his little mouth moved. "And I'm your friend... To the end! Hidey ho... Ha ha ha!"

Looking back at the woman from behind his false, painted on, cuteness, Chucky hadn't been far off the mark in his estimation. Early fifties, about 190lbs, heavily caked in make-up and with her hair held up in a tight bun, this woman bore all the classic hallmarks of an annoying neighbour. Somebody that wouldn't let you so much as park an inch over her drive without racing from behind her twitching net curtain and giving you an earful. The name tag she wore implied her name was Marie, the work uniform obviously for one of the local businesses here in the popular ski resort of Aspen, Colorado.

"Well aren't you just the cutest little thing?" She pulled Chucky into her generous bosom and gave him a huge squeeze, cuddling him, burying his head in her flesh as she hugged him tighter and tighter. He didn't know what was happening here, but this wasn't the kind of reaction he was used to. As Marie hugged her new best friend, she could hear him speak again, his voice muffled as he spoke. Releasing her vice like grip and holding him up in the air she looked at him again, stitches and all.

"What was that little man?" She asked, her face lighting up. Chucky guessed he'd hit the mother of all freaks with this one.

"Cuddles are for girls..." He laughed, his eyes blinking again. "Let's not cuddle again... Ha ha ha."

"Well whatever you say." Marie laughed as she set him down on the counter, startled as her phone suddenly started ringing, the monotonous tone blaring from the living room. Leaving Chucky sat on the kitchen counter, Marie turned and waddled her way into the living room, the ringing stopping as soon as she reached the phone. Seizing his chance, Chucky took a quick look around, the kitchen immaculate and clean, not a thing out of place. Luckily enough, the scissors Marie had used to open his box lay right beside him, the exceedingly sharp blades glinting in the reflection of the kitchen light as darkness began to settle outside the window, over the horizon. The dog was becoming a nuisance too. He'd figured it was a pretty big dog, the bark startling him as he had been brought in from the cold, but not this big. Before him, sat with its tongue hanging from its mouth, panting in excitement, sat the biggest and most playful golden retriever Chucky had ever seen. It seemed more curious about Chucky than anything, simply sat staring at him sat on the kitchen counter, a new friend for him to play with maybe? Grabbing the scissors Chucky quickly placed them in his overalls before turning back to his new, excited friend.

"Get out of here you little shit!" He hissed violently, raising his hand, fist clenched. As he did, the dog whimpered, standing and spinning on the spot before bolting from the kitchen. He then noticed Marie's voice had become incredibly quiet as he heard footsteps approaching from the hall.

Time to get out of here and across the road to Alice.

As Marie entered the kitchen, she fumbled with the name tag, secured by a pin to her shirt, carefully removing it and placing it on the counter beside the freshly opened box. Looking at the clock she noted the time, 6:45pm, and made her way over to the oven, slowly turning the temperature gauge, the oven lighting up immediately. At that precise moment, alarm bells started ringing in Marie's head as she slowly, and steadily stood upright and turned, her body moving as one solid, rigid object.

Chucky was gone.

Confusion began to cloud Marie's mind as she approached the kitchen counter, wondering if her mind was playing tricks on her, if she'd actually returned Chucky to his box, but as she came to a stop in front of the box, she found this was not the case. The only other answer was Henry, her beloved 4 year old retriever had jumped up and grabbed him, no doubt gripping Chucky in his soft mouth and shaking him to bits. She turned and headed back out of the kitchen and down the hall, entering the living room, lit only by a solitary lamp in the far corner. As she stood in the doorway of the living room, her eyes narrowed and her ears began to listen for any slight sound coming from anywhere inside. Then she heard it. Over in the corner of the room and behind the couch, in the corner next to the sideboard. Marie moved quickly, as she made her way past her favourite arm chair and over to the other side of the room, ready to scold Henry for misbehaving, although she knew how playful a demeanour he had, and couldn't help but love him all the more for it. Resting one knee on the couch and placing her hands on the arm she suddenly lunged over and tried to surprise Henry, but had a surprise of her own waiting for her. Henry was there, but now Chucky. Instead, Henry lay with his head buried between his paws, ever so slightly trembling, something obviously upsetting him, making him retreat to this corner of the room, cowering in fear. It was then that Marie heard laughter behind her, spinning her head in shock as she did, instincts taking over. She couldn't believe it. There, in the arm chair she had literally just walked past, sat Chucky. Eyes staring dead ahead, smiling innocently, despite the stitches that ran amok over his face. Marie didn't know what to make of it. She had walked past that chair just seconds ago, and was absolutely sure it had been empty. Standing, Marie brushed herself down, straightening her blouse and dress, and walked slowly, nervously over to Chucky. She slowly leaned over and looked into his eyes, mystery confronting her as she did so.

"How did you get there?" She whispered. Half asking Chucky, half asking herself.

She stretched out her arms and grabbed him under his arms lifting him up, high above her head, allowing him to look down on her as she examined ever stitch ad blemish once more. Just then there was a knock at the door, the pounding sounding through the hall and into the living room. Marie's head automatically spun to the living room door, surprised by the explosion of noise from out front. Just as she did this, Chucky reached into his overalls and removed the long, incredibly sharp scissors, just as Marie noticed and turned her head back to him. She was just in time to see the malevolent, joyous smirk cross his lips as his eyes narrowed, his arm swinging down through the air, the scissors cutting in at an angle before suddenly piercing the side of Maries throat, so fast and with so much power that the tips of the blades instantly emerged from the other side. Marie's eyes widened as shock took over, her grip on Chucky relinquishing allowing him to fall to the floor unscathed. She gasped as she tried to breathe, but it proved pointless, no such luck as she desperately tried to shout, alert whoever stood at her front door. Blood gushed down Marie's blouse as she staggered frantically, reaching out to steady herself as her head became light, her vision becoming cloudy. As she tried again to inhale, she now found herself seeming to invite death that little bit quicker as she sucked blood down her throat and into her lungs, the painful feeling as her chest began to throb, causing even more alarm. Unable to hold onto the sideboard that sat along the back wall of the living room, Marie crashed to the ground, landing on her side, the handles of the scissors smacking into the surface of the hardwood floor and pushing the scissors that little bit deeper. Suddenly, Henry appeared from around the corner of the couch, bravery instilled as he watched his owner, distressed, fighting for her life at the hands of this tiny stranger that had frightened him so. Whoever stood at the front door had now started knocking again, causing Chucky to turn to the living room door, before turning and addressing Henry again, the barking proving too loud for Chucky to handle.

"Shhhhhut up, you fucking idiot!" Chucky spat, his furious whisper causing the dog to bark even louder.

The knocking had become even louder too, somebody really seemed to want to see this woman, the barking most likely echoing down the hall and towards the front door, alerting whoever stood outside. Surveying the scene and figuring there was only one option, Chucky approached Marie's body and lifted his leg, kicking her over and onto her back. Then grabbing the handles of the scissors, Chucky yanked them forward, Marie's larynx slicing open immediately, a spray of blood covering Chucky as he closed his eyes and felt the still warm blood cloud his face. Then turning to the Henry, whose barking had remained deafening as he bounded about the room, jumping from left to right, backwards and forwards, Chucky knew what he had to do.

'There's a first time for everything after all.' He thought to himself as he held the scissors tightly in his fist, extending his other arm and beckoning Henry towards him with his index finger.

"Come here boy!" Chucky playfully whispered as he lifted the scissors high above his head, swinging them down towards Henry.

Back in Chicago, John Bishop now found himself sat in the company of Vincent Dolucca, a glass of rum each by their sides as they had talked long into the evening, addressing the matter at hand.

"Do you think she will know what to do?" Vincent asked.

"We can only hope." John answered as he lifted his glass. "But I am sure she will succeed in sending the abomination on his way."

"Let us hope this is so brother." Vincent replied. "And the girl in Los Angeles?"

"I have contacted our brothers on the west coast. They are to act in due course." John softly spoke.

"Then everything shall be how it is intended." Vincent smiled as he sat back in his chair. John nodded.

"Indeed Vincent. It is unfortunate, but all worthwhile things require certain sacrifices." John said. "Miss Pirce knows this. That is why she will act without thinking twice. We can only hope that she carries out our request when the time comes, and does not simply act to fulfil her own ambitions. But I am confident she will make Damballa proud."

"And Jeffrey?" Vincent casually asked as he eyeballed the drink in his hand, rolling the glass and allowing his rum to swill around hypnotically before lifting the glass and gulping down the contents in a single shot.

"It did not prove easy, but alas, he has the address of Mr Ray's next target and is ready to move." John answered calmly. "Fear not, this entire ordeal will soon be over."

With that, the two men poured another glass of rum and sat in silence. John Bishop was correct. Pretty soon, it would all be over. But which way would the tide turn?

Leaving deep, yet incredibly small and bloody footprints in the snow, Chucky had carefully made his way outside and over the road, Alice's house his destination as he ducked behind various trash cans, vehicles and walls. He'd learned to be exceedingly nimble over the time he had spent in this body and true to form, he was pretty sure that he had made it over without being seen as he now found himself stood outside the house, the wide open basement window looking like the best point of entry. As he stood in the dark, cold Aspen evening, he noticed the small flakes of snow floating around him as he held his hand out. He hadn't seen snow since... Jesus had it been so long? He hadn't seen snow since Chicago, 1988.

'How time flies.' He thought.

Dropping to his knees and sticking his head through the window frame, he had been happy to find the basement completely devoid of life. Nothing down there except the furnace and a few bags of cement. Swinging his legs under the open window and pushing himself into the basement, he landed without making much noise and took another look around. Nothing down here of any interest except the stairs leading up into the house. Approaching the stairs, Chucky took them a step at a time, checking every now and then for a creaking board, walking as much to the side as possible, to avoid needlessly giving the game away. It was pretty easy, he didn't weigh much at all and he was quite quick on his feet at the best of time. Reaching the top step, he found the door into the kitchen to be slightly open, the light from outside creeping in through the crack between the door and the frame. Carefully edging his head out, he took a look into the light and pushed the door open, the slightest creak coming from the one of the hinges as the door swung open to reveal an empty, dark kitchen, the light instead coming from the living room next door. It was eerily quiet in the house, no TV, no radio, no shouting. What the hell were they doing? Looking around the kitchen, Chucky stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes lighting up like a kid on the fourth of July, fireworks exploding across his brain as he took in the sight of the block of knives sat on the kitchen counter. He instantly took the scissors from his overalls and threw them to the ground, pulling one of the drawers from the unit and standing on it, levering himself slightly higher up and grabbing the hard, plastic handle of one of the knives, removing it from the block and feeling satisfaction wash over him as he noticed the length of the blade, the sharpness of it. The blade must have been nine inches in length, the minimal, serrated teeth providing more than enough firepower as he turned the knife over in the low light spilling in from the living room. Jumping down from the drawer, Chucky started to march towards the living room, a floorboard suddenly creaking under his weight. He stopped, remaining absolutely still, his ears pricking up as he listened for the sounds of a startled resident.

Nothing...

With that, he moved forward again, entering the living room, again finding the room empty before silently gliding across the thick rug that lay covering the wooden floor, reaching the beautifully lacquered pine staircase. The spindles and banister that decorated the staircase were incredibly well carved, intricate and beautiful as they led up into the next floor from the minimalist decor of the living room. Chucky grabbed hold of one to steady himself and felt the detail of the hand carved spindle against the plastic flesh of his palm. In no time at all he had reached the top step, no light apart from the haunting illumination cast from below. Chucky swung his head and found himself in a narrow hall, four doors available, but the one immediately in front of him making his eyes sparkle as he waved the knife in front of his face and allowed a smile to appear. The door in front had a pink sticker emblazoned across it, the name reading 'Alice'. Grabbing the handle of the door, Chucky slowly, and gently twisted, the door making a sharp snapping sound as it first moved in the door frame, but immediately silencing as he pushed it further open, the bed in front of him harbouring a lump under the thick, warm duvet as the moonlight flickered in through the snow covered window. It was time to let Alice know she had a visitor, and he wasn't about to disappoint. Silently striding into the room, Chucky noticed how sparse Alice's collection of toys were. Nothing in the way of dolls, which didn't surprise him one bit, but a few board games and a collection of kids DVDs were strewn across the floor. Grabbing one of the plastic storage boxes filled to the lid, ready to burst, with games and various other toys, Chucky pulled it alongside the bed and quietly stepped up, now level with Alice as she lay completely covered by the thick winter duvet. His eyes lighting up, knife down by his side, Chucky leaned slightly forward and gently grasped the duvet, suddenly yanking it back in one fluid movement as he greeted Alice.

"Surpri..." He didn't get any further. Before he knew it, a forearm had come swinging out of nowhere, catching him square in the side of the head and sending him tumbling to the floor, crashing into the drawers besides Alice's bed. As Chucky shook his head, shaking away the cobwebs, he gathered himself and let his vision clear, the blurriness beginning to dissipate. The view that greeted him made electricity crackle through every hair on his head, his heart ignited in anger and his pupils dilated as Nica Pirce sat bolt upright, a look of furious rage spread across her face.

"You!?" Chucky spat in disbelief, struggling to believe his eyes. How was this possible? She was supposed to be miles away, still under the impression he was in Longcroft, slowly rotting from the inside out.

"What's the matter Charles?" She demonically asked. "Not what you were expecting?"

"You fucking slut!" Chucky raged back at her as he stood to his feet. "I'm gonna finish what I started twenty five years ago you crippled fucker!"

With that, Chucky immediately charged at Nica, the knife in his hand held out front, swinging in a furious frenzy. Nica had no option but to hold her hands out, catching Chucky by the throat, choking him as his hands went to work, slashing away as the knife cut into her forearms, Nica screaming in pain with every cut as the blood started to gush down her wrist. In a desperate attempt to stop him, Nica found herself lifting Chucky and throwing him, head first, over the bed, Chucky crashing into the Alice's wardrobe door before landing upside down and disappearing out of sight beneath the bed. Nica looked at her wrists, the blood flowing from the various slash marks Chucky had administered. Grabbing one of Alice's pillow cases, Nica wrapped it as tight as she could in a last ditch attempt to stem the bleeding, her head beginning to feel light and dizzy. Then, slowly, she started to crawl over the bed, gradually peering over the edge of the bed and at the floor where Chucky should be. But there was no Chucky, his body gone. Suddenly Nica heard a scream as she immediately felt Chucky land on her back as he screamed at her in anger.

"You filthy fucking bitch!" He yelled as he gripped his tiny hands on her shoulders and started to sink his teeth into her neck, Nica screaming, the pain shooting through her like wildfire. Feeling one of Chucky's hands let go of her shoulder, she managed to turn her head slightly, just enough to see the knife raised high above her head, the moonlight flashing in her face as the blade cut through the air. Without thinking, Nica threw her arm back over her head, blocking Chucky's knife attack and wrapping it around Chucky's head before catapulting him over her shoulder and once again into the wardrobe door, the wood splintering as he made impact. As he lay there Nica felt at her neck, the burning pain from Chucky's teeth marks made all the more real as she ran her fingers over the indentations he had made on her skin. Before she knew it, Chucky had once more recovered and stood bolt upright again, lunging at Nica while her guard was down, the two of them falling backwards off Alice's bed, Nica banging her head on the wooden floor of the bedroom. Chucky immediately shot up and started to go to work on Nica, instantly grasping her thick hair in his hands and repeatedly slamming her head into the floor, screaming at her, furious, calling her every name he could think of.

"Think you can fuck with me?" He screamed as he started to kick her in the stomach, before kneeling beside her and raining punches down on her face. Nica didn't see much as she fought to hold her hands up, every punch of Chucky's connecting in some place that would send Nica's body into shock, the agony tearing up and down her body. At this moment, as soon as he stopped throwing his fists at her, she noticed him grab the knife and once more raise it high above his head, an evil glint in his eyes as he stared Nica out.

"Say 'hi' to that fucking slut mother of yours for me." He hissed with a smile screwed across his stitched, little face.

The knife came crashing down, only inches away as Nica, using every bit of strength she had left, managed to roll out of the way, the knife making a 'thudding' noise as it became embedded in the solid wood floor, Chucky trying desperately to yank it free, both hands wrapped around the handle. Before he could defend himself, Nica sat up and swung her arm, catching Chucky right in the middle of his face and sending him flying back as he disappeared under Alice's bed. Seizing the opportunity, Nica started to move, crawling as quick as she could, reaching the hall and the top of the stairs, about to make her way down as she heard the 'chink' of the knife suddenly yanked free of the floor, the evil cackle of Chucky and the rapid, tiny footsteps as he immediately gave chase. Turning and casting her dazed vision over the staircase before her, Nica grabbed one of the carved spindles of the banister and was just about to make her way down when again she heard the same blood curdling scream, the murderous rage dripping from every decibel, as Chucky landed once more on her back. Wrapping his hands around her neck, they both fell end over end down the wooden staircase, crashing through the spindles and free falling the remaining ten feet, landing yards apart on the cold floor of the living room, broken wood clattering to the floor around them. As Chucky sat up he spun his head around, not absolutely sure where Nica was.

Until he saw her...

She was laying on her side, with her back to him, completely still, not moving an inch. Not taking anything for granted, Chucky stood a little uneasy on his feet at first, but quickly making his way to Nica as he reached down, grabbing his knife as he walked, raising it by his side, ready for any little trick she may have planned. As he approached her, he placed a hand on her shoulder and pulled her onto her back, the sight that greeted him sending joy racing through his demented little body. As Nica lay, unsure what had happened, Chucky could see quite clearly that there was now a foot and a half of a spindle from the staircase protruding from Nica's chest, a pool of blood spilling out, Nica's t-shirt torn wide open as she lay shaking. She coughed suddenly, startling Chucky as blood erupted from her mouth and dribbled down her cheek, Nica screamed in intense agony as she tried to move, seizing as soon as the pain jolted through her chest. As he looked again, Chucky noticed the scarring above her breast, the crude stitches disfiguring her for life, the result of their previous tussle back in San Diego. Thinking on his feet, Chucky lowered the tip of his knife to Nica's chest, her face twisted in fear and pain as Chucky slid the tip of his knife under one of Nica's stitches, slowly levering up until the stitch came free, popping from the fleshy seams.

"Where's Alice?" He asked quietly, his voice even more menacing as he lowered his tone.

As he asked this, an explosion occurred in Nica's brain. All she could think of was John Bishop, telling her, assuring her, she would know what to do when the time came. How she would be able to send this abomination back down the path that would eventually lead to his demise, and the cold, merciless embrace of Damballa.

Nica knew now what she had to do.

"She's not here." Nica whispered, her body feeling cold. "She left... Yesterday... She knew you were coming... I told her."

Chucky narrowed his eyes, slightly confused.

"Now how did you know that?" He asked as he scraped the flat edge of the knife across Nica's chest.

"Your friend told me." Nica gasped. "John Bishop."

"Nice try bitch." Chucky smiled. "That piece of shit's been dead for almost as long as you have."

"No." Nica interjected. "That's how I know... Alice is useless to you."

"What do you mean?" Chucky snarled.

"She isn't the one... The first one I mean... She never was... It's Andy Barclay!" Nica was struggling to breathe, he lungs beginning to fill with blood.

"What?" He snapped, suddenly noticing something besides Nica. There on the floor, lay a solitary white flower. An orchid, no less. Throwing back his head, Chucky began to laugh hysterically as Nica lay dying before his very eyes. "Did he give you that?" He asked.

Nica slowly looked to the orchid, then back to Chucky, nodding gingerly.

"I don't believe it. That miserable fucker's still doing his shit with the flowers?" He laughed again. "He did tell you that the white ones mean impending death didn't he?"

Nica once again nodded.

"Your precious new best friend gave you that fucking thing then sent you off to die?" He laughed between sentences as he enjoyed himself, savouring every moment.

As Chucky laughed, he suddenly found himself being drowned out. The laughter coming from none other than Nica Pirce as she lay before him, slowly choking on her own blood. Disturbed and wary, Chucky held the knife up, aggression plastered over his face once more.

"Why the fuck are you laughing?" He asked as Nica's laughter turned to a broken, but loud cackle.

"Because..." She started. "That one's yours."

Nica turned her head and looked at Chucky's feet, her laughter echoing through the house. As Chucky looked down, knife in hand, he slowly and carefully took a step backwards, the white orchid beneath his tiny foot suddenly exposed and bringing a chill to Chucky's spine, panic to his very soul. As though it was too much to take, Chucky suddenly flew into a rage, lowering the knife, the very tip resting on the bare skin of Nica's chest.

"Where the fuck is Alice?" He screamed. "I swear I'm gonna kill that fucking kid just for the fun of it!"

Nica shook her head as the smile slowly disappeared from her face, a more serious look now taking shape.

"That dies with me." She whispered, another cough as even more blood began to make its way from her mouth.

Chucky applied more pressure to the knife and pressed on harder, the blade starting to break skin as a drop of blood formed, slowly growing to a tiny pool, resting in the indentation caused by the pressure of the blade.

"I mean it you fucking crippled bitch." His eyes burned with fire as he looked into Nica's very soul, delivering his threats with as much venom as he could muster. "You tell me where that fucking kid is or I'll make this the slowest death you could ever wish for!"

Suddenly, as Nica coldly stared straight back into Chucky's eyes, her hands shot up and wrapped around the knife handle, smothering Chucky's hand underneath. Chucky taken completely by surprise.

"Go fuck yourself cocksucker!" She spat, before immediately plunging the knife into her own chest, the blade cutting through the tendon, muscle and organs as it effortlessly sliced into Nica's heart, the coldness washing over her as she felt the impending darkness, the comfort and release of death itself.

"NOOOOOO!" Chucky screamed, his anger erupting in a volcano of abuse, the sudden red and blue flashing lights of the police car in the street streaming in through the window of the living room. Somebody obviously finding the dismembered remains of Marie and her lovable little pooch Henry.

Within a minute, the cold, lifeless body of Nica Pirce lay alone in the living room of the house as Chucky disappeared into the night, furious at the way his plans had been disrupted once more.

But at least he knew now what to do.

Find Andy Barclay.

And that wouldn't take long at all...

Shortly after Nica drew her last breath, her heart thumping its final beat as the blood ceased circulating around her battered and bruised body, her eyes closed and she welcomed the ice cold embrace of death. Fear, pain, apprehension all giving way as she was dragged into the icy abyss.

Her body still, lifeless, limp...

Nothing at all left for Nica to savour, to live for...

But then something...

Light...

Blinding, searing, beautiful white light...

She flickered her eyes and found the light too powerful to take in, her eyelids fighting every command she gave them to face the brightness, see what was happening. Eventually she managed to open them and take in her surroundings. Nothing but light. Nothing to the side, nothing underneath, just a vast empty void. She felt different. What was the feeling? She struggled to think of the word. Happy? That could be it. No, it was something more, something exceeding happiness. It was peace.

She felt at peace.

Filled with emotion as the light dimmed slightly to reveal two figures in the distance. She narrowed her eyes, peering into the light, the figures starting to take shape. As she recognised them, her face lit up, beaming her beautiful smile as she felt a wave of ecstasy race through her, burning with love. Her mother and Barb stood waving, beckoning Nica to join them the joy across their faces as they welcomed her. As Nica looked down at her wheelchair she felt the will to do something she had never done before. Placing her palms on the hand rests she pushed herself up with ease, her legs straightening under her weightless body as she let go, allowing her legs to push her the rest of the way as Nica finally stood up. Putting one foot in front of the other she walked forward one step, her hands leaping to her mouth in astonishment as she felt a tear of pride roll down her cheek. Dropping her hands to her chest as she gave her mother and her sister a graceful smile, Nica noticed something else. The scar that had been forced upon her was now gone. Lowering her t-shirt to take a look she felt relief as she took in the view. The clear, perfect skin was glowing with radiance, a beautiful peachy tone. Before she knew it she'd taken a few more steps and suddenly felt the warm embrace of love as her mother placed an arm around her, Barb following, welcoming her in and turning to walk with her. Into the light and on, troubles well and truly left behind, her life ending with accomplishment as her final task of keeping Alice safe and relieving her family of their tormenter had reached a conclusion. She stopped suddenly, looking back into the distance, the wheelchair, standing out against the sheer white brilliance surrounding them, a black lump of twisted metal that had carried her throughout her entire life. Offering a smile of gratitude Nica slowly turned her head, giving her mother a hug before wrapping an arm around Barb, all three of them walking slowly off into the light as the brightness wrapped around them, welcoming them with a warmness.

Farewell to life...

And onwards...

In death she had finally found peace...

Farewell Nica Pirce.


	11. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

As Jeffrey sat on the bench in the little town square, the crowd of people going about their day to day lives, shopping waiting for buses, meeting up with friends and family for dinner, he placed his hand in the bag of apples and started to crunch through them one after another. The apple, in his culture was celebrated as the fruit of life, the purest of all foods. It was as he sat, in the square and across from the same red brick building, a gun store no less, that he had placed himself in front of for the last three days that he suddenly found his vision obscured. The silver US-X van pulling up in front of Jeffrey, coming to a halt as the girl in the driver's seat quickly jumped from the van and slid the side door wide open. Reaching inside the girl flicked her brown, shoulder length hair to one side as she retreived a long package from the back. Carefully scanning the bar code and sliding the side door of the van closed, the girl then proceeded to make her way around the back of the van and cross the road, the package tucked safe and secure under her arm. Jeffrey stood, grabbing his bag of apples and emerging from the back of the van, able to take in the view across the street as the girl rang the doorbell of the apartment above the gun store. In no time at all, Jeffrey was pleased to see a young man, short hair, bit of a beard, in his early thirties but no more, open the door to greet the mystery caller.

"Package for you." The girl smiled as she handed the tablet in her hand to the young man, the signature for the package needed before delivery was complete.

"Really?" He asked, confused as he grabbed the stylus and signed.

"Maybe you won something." The girl smiled.

"Must be my lucky day." Answered the young man as he handed her back her tablet.

With that, the young girl leant forward and lifted the package, handing it to the young recipient.

"Have a good one." She muttered as she handed him the package and turned to leave.

"Thanks, you too." The man smiled as he took the box and disappeared inside, the door swinging closed behind him.

Jeffrey returned to his seat calmly as the girl yanked open her door and jumped back in the van, before slowly pulling into the steady throng of town traffic and disappearing out of sight.

It didn't take long before Jeffrey heard what he needed to confirm that matters had been dealt with.

After a matter of minutes, the explosion rang out across the square, the blast from the apartment startling everybody in the vicinity as people stopped what they were doing and descended on the gun store, their faces filled with curiosity and questions as to the sound that had emanated from inside.

With that, Jeffrey threw his unfinished apple in the trash besides the bench and quickly headed to his car. Pressing the ignition and making his way into the traffic Jeffrey looked briefly in his rear view mirror, the crowd gathered around Andy's Gun Store slowly disappearing as Jeffrey casually turned the corner of the intersection and disappeared into the distance.

Thousands of miles west, the man opened the trunk of the Lexus, the burning rays of the desert sun hitting the woman all at once, blinding her as she shielded her eyes.

"Get out. It is time!"  
>Without saying another word, the man and his accomplice approached the trunk of the car, grabbing the woman by her arms as she slowly allowed her eyes to adjust to the sunlight, her hands still held in front of her face. Pulling her free of the trunk they then threw her to the ground, a cloud of sand and dust flying into the air around her as she landed face down. Quickly the woman climbed to her knees and spun to face the men, her hands held up in a symbol of prayer as she spoke.<p>

"Please," She asked sobbing, "Why are you doing this?"

The men simply stood looking around, eyes hidden behind their shaded glasses, nothing of interest in the expanse of desert, literally acres and acres in every direction of sheer emptiness.

"I can give you money." She tried again, becoming more desperate as every word passed her lips. "Whatever you're being paid. I can double it. Easily!"

Suddenly, one of the men spoke, his voice empty, no emotion, apart from a hint of disgust for her words.

"Stupid girl!" The man spat at her. "You really think forgiveness for such acts can be bought?"

The woman was confused. What were they talking about? She was just about to ask that very question, when out of nowhere came the sound of another car, no, make that two. Two more cars approaching in the distance, quickly reaching them and pulling up next to the first car, sliding to a halt on the sandy surface underneath. As the cars cut the power to the engines, two more men emerged from both cars and screaming could be heard from the trunks. Listening intently, the woman felt sick as the voices inside began to sound familiar, her heart filling with dread as the seriousness of the situation suddenly became clear. Breaking down she began to weep, addressing the six men now stood in front of her.

"Please!" She screamed at the top of her voice, between gasps of air, tears streaming down her attractive face, her blonde hair a mess. "Please, don't hurt my babies!"

As she finished, one of the men took a step nearer and leaned over, his black tie dangling from his neck as he pressed his face up to hers.

"They are abominations." He growled, his teeth showing as his lip snarled. "And they must be dealt with, just lie you!"

Willing to try anything, the woman made a lunge for the man's tie, grabbing it before being dimissed, pushed aside by the Caribbean gentleman as he merely stood and returned to his colleagues. Unable to control herself any more, the woman knelt up, leaning forward and digging her hands into the soft, warm sand surrounding her, anger and rage projected across her face as she started hollering furiously.

"You have no idea!" She screamed, her lungs fit to burst. "You have no idea who you're fucking with you cunts!?"

One of the men turned around, lifting his hand to lift his shades back up to the top of his nose.

"Oh I beg to differ." He calmly replied as he reached inside his jacket and withdrew a hand gun, rage still written over the woman's face. "We know exactly who you are Miss Tilly... Or should I call you Tiffany?"

Panic... Suddenly the rage was gone, the face no longer contorted in anger and frustration, those emotions now giving way to panic, fear and disbelief. As she stared at the man, his gun now trained directly on her, she noticed he had lifted his gaze and was now staring past her, just over her left shoulder, something behind her interesting him. Following his eyes, Tiffany turned and looked over her shoulder, her heart skipping a beat and a sudden urge to vomit sweeping through her as she noticed the freshly dug grave behind her, the poorly made cross at the head of the grave sticking out of the sand at an angle, the flowers hanging gingerly from the cross.

White flowers...

Three of them...

Orchids...

Turning and staring down the barrel of the gun, kicking and screaming still audible from the trunks of the cars, Tiffany began to let out a loud, bloody and incredibly short lived scream of terror and realisation before being instantly cut short by the explosion from the gun. The loud crack of gunfire enough to make the vultures a few hundred yards away immediately take flight, scattering in different directions as Tiffany's limp, lifeless body flopped back and fell into the grave.

Damballa awaits...

**Two weeks later**

Slowly, but steadily, they walked.

The grass slightly overgrown in patches, the rain lashing from the heavens, gently slowing to a drizzle as the young girl held hands with her much older chaperone. The tall, concrete gravestones either side of the pair were examined briefly as they walked, their heads flitting from right to left as they took in the names, drops of water trickling down the slabs of cement. The muddy ground parting gently under their feet as they walked, the old woman stopped suddenly, her young acquaintance almost yanked from her feet as she gently hummed to herself. Looking up at the old woman, the girl could clearly see her stare focused on something. Following her eyes the young girl found herself taking in the fresh grave, the headstone adorning it basic, void of any intimacy. Taking in the letters the girl instantly knew to whom the grave belonged.

NICA PIRCE

NOV 9th 1988 - NOV 7th 2013

Averting their eyes, the young girl and the old woman looked at each other, the rain picking up again, slamming against their thick coats, the umbrella in the old woman's hand allowing only the slightest respite. Without saying a word, they both returned their gaze to the headstone, before suddenly the old woman spoke.

"Are you going to be alright?" She asked, squeezing the little girl's hand tighter.

Without saying a word, the little girl nodded, her eyes never leaving the grave, the rain trickling down her face. She slowly pulled her free hand up, letting it rest across her chest, a red rose sitting clenched in her fist as she took in the macabre sight.

"I need to do this." She finally whispered.

The old woman releasing her hand, and turning, stooped slowly to one knee and wiped away a mixture of tears and rain water from the young girl's eyes, a sympathetic smile forming across her wrinkled face.

"You don't have to do this." She said as she looked into the girl's eyes. "It's over now."

"I know." The young girl answered, turning her head for an instant to look at the headstone, quickly turning back to the old woman. "I want to do it. It feels right."

Nodding, the old woman gently stood and straightened her handbag, hanging over her shoulder and threatening to break free.

"Okay sweetie." She motioned, flicking her head back over to the tall oak tree by the gravel car park. "I'll wait over here."

Stroking the girl's cheek, the woman turned and slowly made her way back across the small graveyard, coming to a rest under the shelter of the tree, the cold and wet November afternoon not failing to disappoint.

Back at the grave, the little girl stood, simply staring. She hadn't a clue what to do, what to say. But then she figured words didn't matter now. Too late, the events of the last couple of weeks bringing the nightmare to a conclusion and delivering peace at last. Raising her hands to her head, the rain pelting her with a vicious frenzy of attacks, the little girl gently pulled down her hood, revealing a head of beautiful long blonde hair. Then without saying a word, she bent forward and threw the flower on to the grave, the rain instantly smothering it, the petals wilting under the weight of the drops of water. Standing upright, the girl spoke as the wind and rain whistled around her, blowing her long golden ponytail left and right, up and down.

"Thank you." She said quietly, arms hanging loose by her sides. "For everything."

Suddenly, the wind picked up even more, the trees littered around the outskirts of the graveyard bending under the blustery pressure, the rain beginning to soak the young girl to her skin as her thick winter coat, bright yellow, became darker and darker as it soaked up the water. It was at this point the old woman noticed the conditions worsening and stepped forward, shouting across the graveyard and causing the young girl to spin on the spot, acknowledging her.

"Alice!" She screamed over the whistling wind. "Come on Alice, we have to go!"

Nodding, Alice replied as she turned to look at the grave one final time, the rose now soaked under the constant onslaught of rain.

"Coming grandma!" She yelled back.

Her eyes now focused on nothing but the headstone, Alice spoke one final time.

"Goodbye aunty Nica." She wiped away a tear with the now drenched sleeve of her coat. "I love you..."

With that Alice turned and softly walked back towards her grandmother, the ground soft and muddy underfoot as she made her way back, her hair now a tangled mess of blonde, sodden lockes. As they reached the car Alice's grandmother unlocked the doors and in they climbed, firing the engine and leaving, the graveyard disappearing in the rear mirror of the car.

Two cars down, watching as Alice and her grandmother hopped into the car and slowly left, two Caribbean gentlemen sat intently. Their eyes also focused on the grave, the red rose laying exposed, bare and prone in the ensuing storm. With neither taking their eyes from the grave, one of the men spoke.

"So there we go Jeffrey." The first man said. "She did us proud. Such a beautiful rose too."

"Indeed Vincent." The second man replied as he sat behind the wheel of the Lexus, a bag of apples sitting in his lap. "Red is good?"

"Most definitely." The first man again spoke. "Live long Nica Pirce. Damballa shall watch over you. Wherever you end up."

**The End**


End file.
